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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591847">sin &amp; tonic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji'>kyojinouji</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>ATEEZ (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Assassins &amp; Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Earl!Kang Yeosang, Fake Science, Gun Violence, Jongho and Yunho are brothers, Lord!Choi Jongho, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poisoning, THAT'S A TAG??? THAT'S A TAG!!!!, Victorian Science Fiction, Violence, author can't stop doing that i guess, because I don't know how REAL science works, but the elements are prominent so, it's closer to a fixation but if anyone thinks otherwise pls tell me so i can tag properly!, it's not a major thing, there's definitely a blood kink here but it's not blood play or knife play</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:14:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are ways to repair a broken heart– Choi Jongho would know. </p><p>After his first love returns from abroad, requesting his hand in marriage, the Cœurdonnier is thrust back into a world he thought he left behind. Commissioned by the queen to eliminate any and all threats to the sanctity of fate, the couple is forced to challenge their own bond. However, a lie can only carry them so far. </p><p>OR a fic where Yeosang and Jongho really just can't catch a break and camellias are always painted crimson.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Background Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Choi Jongho/Kang Yeosang, Minor or Background Relationship(s), background Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, background Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. ghost towns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>✧ title from 'killshot' by magdalena bay (the slowed + reverb version is *chef's kiss*) ✧</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“I've seen more places than I can name;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And over time they all start to look the same.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But it ain't that truth we chase.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, it's the promise of a better place.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Ghost Towns</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> - Radical Face</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> Crimson</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He hopes to see it bead on the metal blade that traces his index finger. The plump tip stings, radiating like the midnight sun, but color doesn’t bubble against its edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A fucking letter opener wouldn’t do the trick. Not even the embellished one he got from paying off his suitor’s niceties. His thoughts mask the arrival of another figure.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Jongho,” the redhead calls, frowning when the sharp </span>
  <em>
    <span>clink </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the tool plummets beneath the soapy surface of the tub. “Might I ask what you were doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Bathing,” the younger murmurs. He was, truly, but other things held prevalence at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“With a dull blade?” his brother-in-law smirks. Mingi was kind. Inquisitive, a little shit, and far too observant. But he was kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Must you ask so many questions?” Jongho groans, fishing the slim metal out of the water. “What need you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Mingi tosses one of the towels in his direction. It hits the floor with a mighty smack and leaves the young master mumbling not-so-pleasantries under his breath. Any other man and he would hold his tongue. His brother’s husband, however, was like blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“We need you downstairs. You have a caller.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Jongho feels his eyebrows raise. “Business or courting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Courting it seems.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I do not want a caller then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Alas,” Mingi chuckles, “he already sips tea in the drawing room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Jongho scrambles for the tile-bathed towel, mumbling, “Those who court without warning deserve not a breath to their name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Only you would hope for someone’s heart failure rather than the chance to see if your own still beats,” Mingi comments as he wanders into the hall. The bastard might as well skip instead– show his true glee. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Hush now, you lovesick fool.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>It’s when his footsteps fall silent upon the drawing room threshold that Jongho realizes the root of Mingi’s playful air. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“That best not be the mop of a particular Kang on our sofa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Think me a villain, dearest brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I already do,” the younger sighs. He takes his pride in strides, but loses it somewhere along the way. Most certainly when the heavy head of brunette lifts. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>In all their years apart, Jongho never once forgot the delicate pink mark beside Yeosang’s left eye nor the hue of faded hazel that danced in his irises. For the briefest of moments, he wonders what could have been if he had accepted the older’s proposal. When they were younger, full of hope, and dreaming of a day that their minds matched their hearts. It’s only when the man’s pretty mouth opens that Jongho remembers exactly why things did not work out.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Your gardener knows not how to prune a rosebush,” Yeosang says. “Have you hired someone to do it for you yet? Or is it still a responsibility that befalls you, Your Grace?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “And your marksmen know not how to shoot a lumbering target, it seems? Why else would you be standing before me, devil?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang breaks into a grin before stepping toward the younger. His palm outstretched, Jongho gives in easily to the gesture with a soft expression of his own. Yeosang was an honest man. From the moment they met until their last breaths pass their lips, he would be just as well. And honesty was never something that Jongho handled as easily as its less sightly counterpart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Three years is a long time, friend,” Jongho whispers, pulling the other to his chest. “I am honored that you have come to pay us a visit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “One might think the countryside to be an optimal place to live out the rest of their days,” the brunette whispers, “but I much prefer the city. Where else would you breathe in the smog and wonder when your lungs might take no more?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Three years abroad; far out of bounds of letters and contact. The rumor was that he had been pulled into the army thanks to his particular precision with a rifle. And even that held only a hint of truth. Honesty that only Jongho was privy to, and as such, what he never wished to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      How often had he bathed his hands in scarlet? And when Jongho’s gaze falls upon the vase of white camellias, the same thought flickers through his mind. The Queen’s dog brought him flowers. Pristine and untouched by vermillion, and yet, the image of their flesh dipped in such hues does not flee quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Distractions are not proper. Fumbling is most certainly not either. So, Jongho fools his expression into playing innocent. Lips upturned, he gestures back to the loveseat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Have you been home long?” he asks, relaxing when Yeosang puts the slightest distance between them. “I didn’t know you were returning so early.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As he speaks, one of their servants flutters through like a hummingbird. Her caramel gaze melts over Yeosang. His angelic features, the sharp curve of his jaw– all of him that she can take in. And he yearns to shield the other from her sight. He has nothing against her, Margaret, but the feeling of another sizing up </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeosang</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all people scalds his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the platter of cookies and tea settles onto the table, he shoos her away. And she does little to hide the irritation that paints her face. So be it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Long enough,” he says quietly. “I feel I was away long enough.” The second portion comes out forcefully; like a tempest meeting a mansion of only glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho chooses not to push. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Mingi called you a suitor,” Jongho laughs, dipping one of the plain sweets into his tea. “I don’t suppose you told him what you were actually here for, did you?” He dunks one of the sweets into his tea with a grin. Proper? Most definitely not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He was correct,” Yeosang shrugs. This time, though, it’s tense. It makes Jongho freeze. “I want to court you– properly this time, Jongho.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The cookie crumbles into his teacup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      If he could pull his gaze away from Yeosang’s unwavering stare, he would watch it dissolve into a soggy mess. Even the fragrance of delicate roses wafting from the painted porcelain isn’t enough to mask the horror that passes over Jongho’s expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “Pardon?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       The last time they ran this race, it was Yeosang’s idea to call it quits. After all, how could the country’s top heartmaker be the husband of the Queen’s personal assassin? Yeosang, with his brutal honesty, never kept such a secret from his dearest. Even when they were lovers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “I want you to reconsider–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “We agreed that we would never, Yeosang. You left me out there, in that shittily pruned garden while the heavens poured their sickly sweet sorrows upon us,” Jongho growls and sits up straighter. “To what do I owe the honor of your indecision?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Yeosang has the decency to look embarrassed. Shameful, even, as his teeth worry the chapped skin of his bottom lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Jongho notices them now; the changes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Age had been kind to his past lover. His skin, once flawless, was now dotted with a dozen tiny scars. None of which were too prominent– too concerning. Even his cheeks still held the youthful plushness that they seemed to always possess. It was probably safe to say that they would never lose such an attribute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       However, there were things that had been touched by the years. The dark circles under his eyes were deep and his gaze was hollow. No longer did his smile reach the sanctity of his focused stare. Instead, there was a far off look tinting the same features that once shone like the ocean cast in sunset hues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The sights he had seen abroad were no doubt unimaginable. And so, Jongho draws a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “What happened, Sang?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       That stare snaps away from its thousand mile venture. Hazel gracing endless brown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “I dreamt of you,” Yeosang says softly. His voice no louder than a lullaby, Jongho wonders just how far it could reach. Surely not to the corridor where Mingi and Yunho had no doubt gathered. Even so, he presses a finger to his lips and stands. Palm outstretched, Jongho offers the one sanctuary that he can think of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “Come on,” he says, leading the older out of the drawing room and up the stairs. The heavy thudding of boot-laden feet echoes down the hallway just seconds before the two round the corner of the doorway. It appeared his brother and his husband had little else on their plates for the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       As they climb the stairs, the brunette stifles a laugh. It’s enough to make Jongho pause once they reach the first landing. With a lifted brow, he cocks his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “I missed your brothers,” Yeosang chuckles. “Yunho hasn’t changed in the slightest. If anything, I feel as though his marriage has given him a much more youthful glow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Jongho rolls his eyes. While the four of them had grown up together, alongside many of the other affluentials in the area, his brother always had a particular bond with Mingi. Between daisy chains and whispered promises locked by pinkies, the two were always inseparable. And as such, insufferable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “Oh, give it but a moment. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Jongho replies. He could only speak from experience. With Yeosang’s hand heavy in his own, warm fingers laced between his like a dainty doily, he could say it with certainty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He was so terribly fond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The heavy oak door swings open, revealing the mint green and white striped wallpaper of his own bedroom. It was not removed from existence, not hidden away in some exclusive corner, but it was all they needed for a conversation of this nature. And evidently, the older thinks so too as he flops onto the mattress with a sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “You can’t nap now,” Jongho says softly. However, Yeosang doesn’t respond as he motions for the other to join him. When his back settles into the cushioned embrace of his bed, a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding ghosts over his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       There is a peace to be found in uncertainty. Where the birds sing softly outside the window and the sun tickles their skin as though painting florals. It’s the buzz of anxiety through veins unnoticed for so long and the desperate plea of petunias wishing to spring free from rib cages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s the unspoken weight that Yeosang burdens himself with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “We need to talk about it, Sang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       “Must I remind you, I came here of my own volition,” Yeosang groans into the sheets. “Words are not hard to come by, but sometimes they are impossible to form.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Jongho pouts. Invisible to Yeosang, of course, but an unexpected expression nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The heartmaker had received many suitors in his time following his debut. Countless lost their pre-planned spiels the moment they walked through the manor doors, though. Possibly the fault of Yunho and Mingi’s lingering forms in nearly every corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Those who sought his hand in marriage often came forth with the same compliments. His voice was like honey-dew; but never the melon. It was honey in the way of its silky, sweetness, but as dewy as morning mist. It pulled you in and made it nearly impossible to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       And of course, they told him the tale of his hands in poetics. How precious his fingers must be to craft hearts– fashioned from forget me nots and wisteria. Gemstones and carved wood. Everything that could be used to breathe life into a person with a touch of elegant beauty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Heartmakers were rare, but not unheard of in society. Anyone could build a heart and just as easily break one– which was where his job came in. Although everyone was born with the organ, nearly anything could go wrong. Health issues and romance were of the same vein for those in the craft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>       So long as it continued to beat, it was repairable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       And the person who taught him just that was curled against his side like a sleepy cat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Tell me your goal, Yeosang,” Jongho commands finally, not waiting to see the half-awake glower the older shoots him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re a demanding little snot, aren’t you? I remember the days you hardly even spoke—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho sighs. A true, desperate sound that silences Yeosang’s tirade instantly. And so, the older pushes forth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Would you believe me if I said that I came back for you?” Yeosang asks, slipping an arm over his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho knows that it’s his way of blocking out the universe and pretending that all is well, but it makes his throat pull taut. Like the fine hairs of a violin’s bow, he wonders if one day something simple would sever Yeosang’s composure and cause a visceral reaction. An explosion of sharp words and ill-fated blades seeking hearts Jongho wouldn’t be able to mend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Without a doubt, I would,” Jongho says finally, “but I would like further explanation— should you be so kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It dredges a chuckle from the depths of Yeosang’s chest, but it plays like a swan song as he rests his head in Jongho’s lap. A sad sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      How dare such a joyful melody have such deafening consequences? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “The Queen has issued a bounty to the first of her dogs brave enough to conquer her greatest enemy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What might that be? Her own vanity?” Jongho snarks, not unaware of their queen’s particular fondness of her own reflection and luxury. The woman would attempt to dethrone both Titania and Hera if given a chance at greater prowess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, it’s Yeosang’s grave expression that pulls him back from the edge of ornery assumption.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Cœurdonniers, Jongho,” he whispers, his palm finding the curve of the younger’s jaw with the tenderness of a daffodil caught in spring rain. “The Queen has declared that all heartmakers be eliminated unless they swear their loyalty to her alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Jongho knows that his body goes tense. It’s less that he feels his muscles seize under the weight of Yeosang’s words and more the gentle squeeze the other offers him. To be a personal Cœurdonnier of the Queen was the same as selling souls to a single buyer. She could give and take life as she pleased, especially if no one else sought to protect the hearts of those beneath her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      By all means, she meant to operate a black market where only she could trade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I refuse,” Jongho says, clenching his jaw, “you know I refuse, Yeosang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I know, love,” the other says softly, thumbing at the tender skin of Jongho’s cheek, “which is why I’m here to offer you a deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      While his voice is icy, his stare is warmer than anything Jongho has felt in years. Like the lace of his mother’s long sleeves brushing his wrist as they strolled through open parks. Yeosang is delicate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And despite their past, he is Jongho’s home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What did you have in mind?” Jongho asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Marry me. Swear false loyalty to Her Grace, but let my title protect you from her orders,” Yeosang says, frowning when Jongho’s brows pinch in the center. “You can continue crafting hearts that way, Jongho. I’m her property, but you don’t have to be–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That’s my problem, Yeosang,” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to be angry; never has he been one to don his emotions like a second skin. But the threat of losing the one thing he cherished– his freedom– seemingly has pushed him into uncharted waters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Yeosang knows it as his gaze falls onto the burgundy velvet of his waistcoat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I just want to keep you safe, Jongho, and this is the best that I can offer. Faking a happy marriage would tie your loyalty to me and thread you back to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Because you’re a caged bird,” Jongho says, shifting so that Yeosang’s touch falls from his cheek. “She has you held down– lock and key. I care not for my own safety, but I worry for you bargaining yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Mine was bartered away long ago,” the other says. It’s a dreary song like church bells following a funeral parade. But Yeosang does not say it with the conviction of a dying man. Instead, it’s laced with soft, subtle desperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang was never the sort of person to jump into life headfirst. When black cats walked in his path, preceding grim tales, he simply observed them and held steadfast. And a well-thought out  plan was not hard to come by in his presence. However, the concept drills storm clouds into Jongho’s veins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      This was Yeosang. His childhood friend and first love. The man who climbed to the top of dogwood trees simply to appreciate the view; never minding the way branches cracked under his feet. The man who left to serve and protect, but never really knew which side he was meant to be on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      This was Yeosang, whose heart was once a matching set with Jongho’s. But they both knew all too well that wisteria, no matter its immortal consequences, never made well to fill the beating crystal caverns of a living chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Fine,” Jongho whispers. It’s not the first time he’s wondered how their life would have gone, should Yeosang have survived the fall. A heart maker’s job was not to play God, but it certainly was to keep souls from meeting the heavens too soon. Even if it meant destroying the carefully crafted, intricate organs that they were born with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Even if it meant severing the connection between two soulmates that were never destined to remain together until the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It was a blessing to fall in love with his soulmate, the only other person he knew with a wisteria-bloomed heart. But equally, it was a curse to find him sprawled at the base of an ancient dogwood tree– unconscious and barely breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s parents said that Yeosang was lucky to have survived tumbling from such a great height. Afterall, hearts were repairable; quintessence and humanity were not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang’s new heart wasn’t made of crystal and wisteria, but Jongho never stopped to ask what they had replaced it with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’ll do it?” Yeosang asks, hazel eyes brilliant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho hums, lungs heavy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ll marry you, Kang Yeosang. Under the condition that you learn to fly free again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t know if it’s a promise Yeosang can make good on. However, he knows that it’s the only plea he can possibly make to open the cage door. Whether or not Yeosang chose to take the final step was entirely his own choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang doesn’t fight him, though. Instead, he nods and holds out a hand. When Jongho offers his own, he doesn’t smile. There were no dowries to be paid or businesses to obtain. No family names or titles to be sought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Only the hope of safety and a better day ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “When does she plan to execute the ordinance?” Jongho asks once the calm has settled back over his tiny bedroom. “I can’t imagine she’ll wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It was only a whisper when I left,” Yeosang says, wrapping an arm around Jongho’s waist and pulling him down onto the mattress. With his spine pressed against the duvet, he remembers their past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang’s gentle caresses in the fleeting days before they broke off their wildfire romance. The way he fisted the silken sheets when Jongho proved just how dexterous his fingers were. There were many moments lost to the sands of time; buried beneath their weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      One day, maybe, they would dredge them from the depths again. For now, though, Jongho just relishes the way Yeosang’s chest rises and falls under his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I give it two months,” a voice says from the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho’s hip is pressed against the frame when the other two boys sit up to meet his warm gaze. The ivory buttons of his waistcoat catch the light as he grins down at them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I thought you and your beloved crawled back to Hell by now, Yunho,” Jongho says with a snort. He narrowly dodges the flick his older brother aims at his forehead the moment he crosses into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “As the man of the house, I thought it best to check you two weren’t getting into risque business up here. Though, I do suppose if you’re set to marry, no business could be considered such.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho feels his cheeks heat with the comment. It truly didn’t matter that he was no virgin, nor that Yeosang was the particular individual to strip away that label from his skin. Yunho stating it so plainly was only guaranteed to dip him in rose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho must whine audibly, because a chuckle spills into the room as Yunho waves off his embarrassment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Neither of you were sneaky back then, by the way,” Yunho adds, sprinting out of the space before Jongho can launch one of the decorative pillows from his bed. Next time, he would make certain that the boy spit feathers for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Do you think he’ll ever grow up?” Jongho mumbles, smiling softly when Yeosang snorts. If it made the other man happy, he would berate his blood more often. “Rather, have you any idea what he even wanted? He came all the way up here to pester us. The least he might do is clue us in on his thoughts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang shrugs, but reaches for Jongho’s hand anyways. Threading their fingers together was as easy as breathing, but still oddly synthetic. A reminder that they were no longer the other’s missing piece. But the silence that pitters over them like light rain is natural; calming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “A month,” Yeosang says suddenly, “I give it a month before the decree goes public.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho sighs, opting to ignore the way his breath catches in his throat. Silence falls over them again in the early January air as Yeosang lays back once more. If was a nap he wanted after such long travels, Jongho wouldn’t stop him. Not if he felt safe enough to recline in the heart makers’ humble home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho knows, in the back of his mind, that he desires the extravagance that came with a real courting ritual. If his parents were still around to see their youngest off, they would be devastated. A month was nowhere near enough time to provide the pomp and circumstance his mother would have desired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho’s wedding two summers earlier was a glamorous event chock full of colorful blossoms and fruit cakes. Their estate had served as the dreamy setting for the first day of the rest of his brother’s life, but that wasn’t what made the affair a spectacle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Instead, it was their mother’s insistence that the wedding take place in June. Under the guise of the rose month, she was fascinated by the phrase, “married in June— life will be one long honeymoon”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Your father and I married in October. I would never advise a single soul to ever attempt it, you know what they say,” she lectured, only stopping to wait for one of the boys to take over her rant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      With a sacrificial grimace, Jongho gained the lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Married when leaves in October thin, toil and hardship for you to begin,” he had mumbled before spooning stew into his mouth. Dinner was always an entertaining affair; especially at the cost of Yunho’s ever-present flush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>       Old wives’ tales were not the foundation Jongho wanted to base his life on. In reality, he hardly wanted to face the music of the future when his own life had been so raw in the past. But with Yeosang before him again, begrudgingly offering that chance once more, he wonders if they should pay grievance to his mother’s old wishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Married in January’s hoar and rime,” he says under his breath, watching as Yeosang’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, “widowed you’ll be before your prime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He hopes, with everything he has, that the queen’s demands can outlast the chilled nights of January. If just to offer his ancestors one passing portion of solace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, his prayers fall flat as the papers begin to print the news not even two weeks later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      On a simple Tuesday morning, Jongho expects to be uninterrupted in his workshop as he carves intricate swirling patterns into the cold porcelain of an infant’s heart. It was a piece commissioned by her parents following the discovery of a small tear in her birth organ’s lining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Nature had not abandoned them entirely, however, Jongho wished that it would. Every time he received such a request from desperate families, he could never turn them down. Though, it drilled a particular realization into his mind time after time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There were still humans born with beating hearts; the kind of flesh and blood. They were the unlucky ones. More often than not, they were weak organs with thin muscles. And nearly every time, Jongho found himself crafting pieces far smaller than a single British crown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He’s only just pushing the petals of a miniature lily of the valley through the delicate, jade veins of his newest piece when Mingi tumbles into the room with wild eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “The Queen is here,” he pants, hastily pulling on his tailcoat as though it would hide the flour stains decorating the black fabric of his vest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Outside, I take it?” Jongho asks as a laugh works its way into his voice. Mingi shoots him a glare before ushering him out of the workshop with a hushed insult. “Why would she come unannounced?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “The Cœurdonnier news broke this morning,” Mingi says quickly and leads him up the winding staircase from the basement, “Yeosang is with her. Therefore, I believe it’s safe to assume your engagement has already been announced.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho can’t help but frown as he wipes his hands off on his apron and tosses it into the laundry shoot. While it was entirely plausible that Yeosang would have written to Her Majesty, it also felt odd to have the most powerful woman in the country arrive upon his doorstep willingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Saying nothing, he pries his own tailcoat from the rack and tugs it over his daywear. A warning, nonetheless, would have been wonderful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the doors to the grand foyer swing open, Jongho is greeted by the chilly air as he steps outside. In their cobblestone drive, a carriage of baroque styling rests. Its ornate gold trim twinkles in the sunlight, wheels painted with intricate blues and reds. On a better afternoon, he might find himself tucking the design efforts into the back of his mind. Something to test on later crafts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Today, however, he finds his own frown permanent as his gaze settles first on Yeosang’s strict posture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His frame is rigid and his stare icy as he sizes up the cast of characters before him. He has yet to notice Jongho’s approach, instead too intent on never severing eye contact with one of the guards assisting the queen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Not for the first time, he looks just as he is. A sour assassin trained to destroy the one thing Jongho’s career sought to repair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But when he turns his attention to his fiance, it’s as though all the previous bitterness has fallen victim to a syrupy sweet dip in cocoa. His scowl melts, not quite into a smile, but into a soft expression; like peeling the new paint of a mansion wall away to reveal the old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It isn’t as though they have time to greet each other, though. Not when Her Majesty’s ruby encrusted slippers hit the pavement with a sharp click and clack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi Jongho,” she says when her beady gaze settles onto him, “I hear we have a few things to talk about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He wants to focus on anything that isn’t the long golden chain, studded with dozens of blood red crystals and chunky diamonds dangling around her neck. A large stone, shaped like an anatomical heart, lays just upon her breast. It beats, slowly and steadily, sending a shiver down his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Every time he tries to look her in the eye, he feels miniscule. She is, without the shadow of a doubt, the most dangerous creature he could ever come into contact with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      So, gritting his teeth and moving toward the queen as though she is truly welcome into his home, he offers her a low bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Your Majesty,” Jongho says, praying that her sharp ears don’t detect the fault in his tone. He hardly means for his voice to waver, but there was little hope in avoiding it. Especially when her cat-like grin spreads into something fierce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Rise, Cœurdonnier, lest your fiance think your affections be cast somewhere else,” she says, smirk lacing the words. If he had a vile of nightshade, he’d drop it right into her afternoon tea. “Show me perhaps to your sunroom instead. I care not for cobblestone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He fakes a smile and gestures toward the front door. Mingi stands to one side, holding the heavy wood open with a dazed expression. No doubt, he felt just about as frazzled as Jongho. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The royal shifts gracefully in that direction; one of her handmaidens bunching up the heavy train of her dress as they walk. Jongho wonders, for a split second, how funny it would be if the woman stumbled over her own ego. He would give up a year’s worth of commissions just to see her pompous ass hit the concrete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He was raised to love and appreciate all who show him respect. To tread upon those who treat him with kindness was the same as sin to his mother. And blessed be, he never thought to offend anyone unless they played the game of revenge. An eye for an eye was far too easy for someone who crafted hearts for a living.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the queen settles into the striped blue and white armchair of their sunning parlor with the air of a fallen god, Jongho grimaces. His father would never have cast himself into it as though it was a throne. But that was the difference between the common folk and those who believed themselves capable of dancing on water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Tea, Your Grace?” Yeosang asks, already turning on his heel to retreat into the kitchen. He had been here thousands of times and was more than capable of preparing something as simple as afternoon tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, the queen sighs, “Do you believe Lord Choi cannot be bothered to ask his own servants to do his bidding?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Her words are arsenic in the back of Jongho’s throat as he watches Yeosang stop in his tracks like ice on a freezing pond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Pardon, Your Highness. I fell to the comforts of this home and overstepped my boundaries,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There’s fire in his eyes, the kind that simmers carefully and builds heat where no one else can see. It’s enough to make Jongho step in before their benevolent intruder can dig into Yeosang any further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Margaret,” he says abruptly, locking eyes with the housekeeper from across the room. “Please bring a brew in for Her Royal Highness; preferably Earl Grey or Darjeeling. The works as well, should you be so kind. Make haste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Margaret bows and shuffles out of the room quickly, yet Jongho feels a pang of sadness run its course through his veins. Their staff were never asked to retrieve things that could be just as easily prepared by anyone in the house. In reality, they only employed a handful of individuals for regular cleaning and maintenance. Such demands on Jongho’s end were rare; even more so from Mingi or Yunho. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang must sense his discomfort as they settle onto the loveseat parallel to the queen. Gently, he reaches out until their fingers are intertwined. With a soft expression painting his features, he turns his full attention to the nightmare before them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ll have to admit, I was quite surprised to hear that my dearest Yeosang had returned to the arms of his childhood flame. You have to know, Lord Choi, that your fiance is a talented man,” she says, polished nails tapping against the armchair’s mahogany border. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve heard quite frequently of his conquests in battle,” Jongho says, knowing full-well the comment is a lie. He knew nothing of Yeosang’s achievements as a royal lapdog; even less of the assassinations he had already carried out to keep blood off of the wealthy’s fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      She studies him for a moment, cocking her head as Margaret returns to the scene with a platter of refreshments. One of the other maids follows behind her, bowing gently when she pours a cup of tea for the queen herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It doesn’t surprise Jongho when she passes it to her servant, forcing her to test the liquid for poison, before finally taking a long sip of her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Quite, which is why I find it surprising that he would take up with someone of your career path. After all, what would a bringer of death want with someone that unravels all of his careful stitches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I fail to understand what you mean,” Jongho says, tipping the teapot himself. He watches the dark liquid pool into the porcelain of his cup foggily. Speaking to such a tedious beast was far from his preferred activities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen’s own drink sloshes a little as she chuckles. It’s carefully painted surface catches the light, reminding Jongho of the weeks it took his mother to decorate it. The thought of it possibly careening to the hardwood flashes through his mind in seconds, despite it being safely positioned on the delicate saucer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You craft hearts, Jongho. You play God. Just the same, Yeosang snips through that carefully wrapped tapestry and watches the threads fall with every bullet he sends into someone’s chest,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      For a moment, it almost seems like she is concerned. As though any portion of her emotional standard extends beyond herself. However, Jongho sees the look that flickers over her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Bitterness. It’s no brighter than a wisp, flimsy smoke still lingering. But it says everything he needs to know about her ulterior motive. Like a thorn beneath the underbrush, she threatens to nip at ankles and bare feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      She doesn’t care for him or any of her lesser subjects– only their talents and professions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You know, I don’t think you’ve been registered as soulmates yet, have you?” she asks suddenly, resting her chin in the dip of her palm. Scarlet talons pressed to the dewy, pale flesh of her cheek, Jongho wonders how quickly she could draw blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      What would look like dripping like torn veins down her arm? Or pooling in a teacup– filled only enough to wage a war. His thoughts get away from him before he can grab onto their coat tails, but Yeosang’s deep voice tugs him back to the present. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We haven’t,” Yeosang replies for him. The queen hardly spares him a glance, instead pouting in Jongho’s direction. Even so, the assassin is not easily swayed. “It’s no longer required for soulmates to place their names into arsenal anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen hums at that. She’s no more than a child, really, having only just turned eighteen that previous summer. But even so, she’s an infant with an army. And the concept of one of her own lapdogs challenging her was evidently not high on her list of enjoyable pastimes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Kang Yeosang, I’m certain you know only to speak when spoken to, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And it pisses Jongho off. Every time the woman speaks, she finds a new way to gnash her teeth. She chews at the flesh of a beast she hardly cares to learn the name of and belittles it in the same breath. Even so, he knows better than to push her further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yes, Your Majesty,” Yeosang says, flushing at the reprimand. Jongho doesn’t dare meet his gaze now– he can hardly squeeze the other’s hand without their audience peering at the action hawkishly. Yeosang seems to understand though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s evident in the way he squares his shoulders and raises his chin. Less a mad dog and more a refined gentleman dipped in the Styx. He’s not invincible, but he can pretend to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho knows, fully and truly, that they must sell their love. To escape the confines of whatever future the current monarchy aims to set forth, the queen must know only of Jongho’s devotion. Or else, a caged bird they would all be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “If I may?” Jongho starts and offers a seated bow when the queen grants her permission to continue. “We were registered under our parents' hands a number of years ago. Due to Yeosang’s service, we were on track to file for a dissolution. But truth be told, I don’t believe we ever did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang tenses beside him. To an outsider, it would appear to be a simple reaction to a negative past. But to anyone within their inner circle, it’s the telltale sign that the assassin has picked up on the queen’s pressuring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Thankfully,” Yeosang murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to Jongho’s knuckles. It’s all an act, he knows, but that doesn’t stop Jongho’s lungs from tugging painfully. He hopes the gasp isn’t audible as Yeosang says, “I don’t believe I could have outlasted the application waitlist. It’s probably miles long by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen chuckles; vivid red lipstick stretching inhumanly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Soulmates are designed by fate herself,” the queen says with a saccharine smile, “I can whole-heartedly say that I will never condone marriages between unbound individuals. Thankfully, if you were placed on the registry in the past, that isn’t something we have to worry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It wasn’t a lie. Their parents had tossed them onto the list when they were young– when they acted as though Yeosang’s fall didn’t shatter his heart. As though he didn’t bleed wisteria for all to see. As though they found out that Yeosang had been Jongho’s soulmate through more conventional methods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The story they wove was one where the accident had been less than fatal– and Yeosang’s birth organ was repairable. Not the broken, messy thing at the bottom of a bin. Not the donor piece Jongho’s father carved and his mother painted for their youngest son’s fated. Or who should have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s not the first time Jongho wonders if he’s playing God; changing destiny. He fakes a laugh before leaning his head on Yeosang’s shoulder. Neither of them found comfort in public affection, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Your Majesty, might I ask why you chose to pay us a personal visit?” Jongho asks, fighting the yawn that threatens to spill from his lips. He spent most of the morning locked in the workshop and it was getting far too difficult to keep his eyes open. “I can’t imagine our humble engagement drew your attention so raptly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen smiles and plucks her teacup from its saucer. He dreads the housestaff’s task of washing the vivid pigment of her gloss from the beautiful porcelain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Oh, but it did, Lord Choi,” she says, lazily swirling her drink. Liquid sloshes over the side in an uncharacteristic show of gracelessness. “You see, you’re one of the top Cœurdonniers of this nation. You follow quite well in the footsteps of your parents; I’m certain the Marquess would be thrilled to see your progress. Which is why I’m certain you’ll make the proper choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What choice do you happen to be referencing?” Jongho asks slowly. When the woman has the audacity to shoot him a look of absolute perplexity, he can only offer her a shrug. Is it becoming? Of course not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But it isn’t treason, nor is it any cause for her guards to shoot him full of lead, so he doesn’t have a problem with showing his utmost distaste for her tomfoolery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “By marrying Earl Kang, you become part of my family. In a sense, at least, you are an extension of those that I trust the most.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Those that bow to her; kill for her. The souls who protect her box of secrets with their lives. The thought runs a shiver down his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Still, she continues, “Your goal to avoid my declaration against Cœurdonniers is quite laughable, Lord Choi. You both thought it best, I’m sure, but I have eyes across this nation. Why else would my top assassin return to his hometown, not even making a pit stop at his estate, and pull up to the doorstep of a man he practically left for dead?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      She stops speaking long enough to stir her tea with a long, ruby-bedazzled fingernail. When her dark eyes lock onto Jongho’s, he’s certain that they glitter crimson in the afternoon light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m the Queen of Hearts, child, and yours is quite fragile. Haven’t you been told not to wear it on your sleeve?” She leans forward, venom on her tongue. “It’d be a shame to watch you bleed out on this beautiful ornate rug, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His breath catches in his throat. Beside him, Yeosang freezes. If they were part of some elaborate masquerade, he could easily rival the swan ice sculptures they insisted on using for banquet centerpieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Blooming forget me nots within his windpipes and ivy on his lips, he struggles to find the proper words. Whatever would keep the steadily aimed pistols away from his ribcage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What do you want, Your Grace?” Jongho asks carefully, hoping the panic doesn’t filter into his voice. He fails miserably as her lips spread into a crystalline grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You,” she says, “I have no need for your ability to craft and mend organs, Cœurdonnier, but I would like to see you destroy them.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>✧ Find me on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/kyojinouji">@KyojinOuji</a> </p><p>and Tumblr: <a href="https://bazkinrobbins.tumblr.com">@bazkinrobbins</a></p><p>- Cheers! ✧</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. holy branches</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>✧ there is smut in this chapter! that section is marked with a ' ☆ ' at the beginning and end if you would like to skip it! ✧</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>“But everybody's bones are just holy branches;</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Cast from trees to cut patterns in the world.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And in time we find some shelter,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Spill our leaves, and then sleep in the Earth.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And when we're there we'll belong;</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Cause the Earth don't give a damn if you're lost.”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>
      <em>Holy Branches </em>
    </b>
    <em>
      <span>- Radical Face</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p>
  <span>      Somewhere in the recesses of the manor, a glass clatters to the floor. While he could be angry, dissatisfied with the treatment of their delicate belongings, Jongho hardly bats an eyelash. Because the vulture before him gazes on, attention unrelenting, as his mouth flounders open. And then closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Cat got your tongue?” the queen asks, shifting in her seat so that her elbow rests on the cushioned arm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His father’s chair</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s Yeosang who speaks instead, breathing uneven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Your Highness—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I should have you killed, Kang Yeosang,” she says, “creatures like you bite at the hand that feeds them. Have I not given you a home for these last three years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A home— as if Yeosang didn’t have an entire estate waiting for him here. Jongho bites his own tongue and prays for the taste of iron to pool there. A distraction from the taste of bergamot and citrus that lingers in the back of his throat like fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang nods, but doesn’t meet the woman’s eye. His whole frame shakes, a fawn in a tempest, as she motions for one of her servants to step forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He’s a tall, lithe creature. His silvery blonde hair is pushed away from his face to reveal his piercing blue stare. It’s icy and stoic as his hand moves slowly toward his hip. A pistol, heavy and golden, leaves its holster in a split second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Jongho finds himself looking down its short barrel, he doesn’t flinch. Maybe any commoner would— someone who has never been on the receiving end of such a sight. But Jongho does not fare in the same manner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Instead, he laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s like sprinkling valley lilies on his mother’s coffin again as he glares back at the man behind the gun. She would send him to an early grave herself if she was present to witness his bullheadery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Well, what are you waiting for, then?” Jongho asks, narrowing his eyes. He pretends not to notice the way the man’s hand suddenly trembles. He’s not a coward, it seems, but he is unprepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The wedding ring on his finger isn’t enough to make Jongho back down, though, even as Yeosang’s grip on his arm tightens. Let this royal dog travel home with a story to tell his wife. The tale of a stubborn Cœurdonnier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Pull it,” Jongho growls, “if you so desperately want us out of the way. What did you provide Yeosang that wasn’t already offered here? You offered him a cage and a bottle to shove his soul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen sighs. Her scarlet nails flash in the air as she snaps once, quick and loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That’s enough, Seonghwa,” she says, leaning back in her chair when the servant lowers his weapon. “Do you know what you’re bargaining with, Lord Choi? Your parents wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “My parents wouldn’t have wished for me to become a killer either, Your Grace,” he says, letting the venom drip from his words. She raises a brow at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Are you certain? I remember you, Jongho. If I didn’t, I would never have considered extending such a generous offer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I haven’t a clue—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You were well-versed in poisons; top of your class in all things precise. You were no more than twelve when you took apart your first mannequin, limb by limb, using only a miniature scalpel,” the servant, Seonghwa, suddenly rattles off. “You were two years under me, but the academy thought of bringing you to my level.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Jongho feels the frost begin in the tip of his spine. It casts itself between the dips in his vertebrae, weeping for attention, as his teeth catch the edge of his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In the past, there were memory workers. The kind of people that ripped and snipped the lingering threads of trauma from one’s mind without a second thought. Similar in design to Jongho’s own field, yet somehow, far more illegal. He doesn’t remember when the previous royals eliminated them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But right now, he wishes he had a chance for them to tear the days Seonghwa speaks of clean from the bubbling vat he pulls them from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Everyone kills,” the queen adds, “but not all are trained to do it. Unfortunately, Jongho, you were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I won’t spill a drop of someone’s blood for you, Your Grace,” he says, “I beg you, just shoot me instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      She smiles, and for a second, her youth is evident. In the way crow’s feet don’t tug at the corner of her eyes. In the way the glimmer is soft, no longer malicious, when she delivers the final blow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi Jongho, I don’t damage goods I intend to use.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The teacup rattles as she sets it onto the table. The gold rimmed porcelain glitters as she stands, brushing her skirts clean, and offers her hand to Seonghwa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The assassin glances at it wearily before letting her talons settle gracefully atop his palm. It’s the single look, like a thin veil between them, that makes Jongho realize a single part of Seonghwa he didn’t expect to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His humanity. The brief unwillingness to do something as simple as offer his hand to the most powerful woman in the nation. He stores the information away in the back of his mind as Yeosang’s grip goes white-knuckled on his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The queen is staring at them again. Beady eyes hued in crimson, she doesn’t waver when Jongho narrows his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I will not be putting a stop to your independent work, Cœurdonnier. I’m a villain, but I do know the importance of having a handful of heart makers scattered throughout the country,” she says with a sigh. It almost makes Jongho feel guilty. “The common people cannot lose their access to healthcare. However, all I ask is that you record every style of heart that walks through this door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A list. All she wants from him, for now, is a list. However, it’s a major infringement of his clients’ privacy. To hand over the make and model of every individual commission was the same as giving her an itemized collection of soulmate defining attributes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And that is when the horror of her request hits him blunt force. As she descends the manor steps, as the beating pendent on her chest catches the fading light of the afternoon, as she flees the scene of the crime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He catches Seonghwa’s sodden expression through the tiny side window just as the carriage pulls away from the curb.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Soulmates are designed by fate herself,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the queen had said. With shaking limbs, he watches them disappear around the bend of their tree-lined property.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “I can whole-heartedly say that I will never condone marriages between unbound individuals.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang’s arms wrap around his waist just seconds before he lurches toward the ground. On the stone stairs of the manor, his fiance pulls him into his lap with an expression of sheer panic. He asks only what Jongho wishes to never admit aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She wants to rewrite fate,” he says finally, fingers fisted in the fine embroidery of Yeosang’s waistcoat. It’s a serpentine green and gold today, he thinks wildly. “She is going to play matchmaker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Do you mean…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She’s demanding that we track down couples that aren’t soulmates, Yeosang,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The older makes a sound of surprise in the back of his throat as Mingi steps out onto the stairs behind them. Even so, Jongho doesn’t attempt to hide their conversation from his brother-in-law. He wouldn’t dare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I think her goal is to rearrange couples as she sees fit and have the Coeurdonniers clean up her mess,” Jongho says, his eyes not quite leaving the cobblestone path of the driveway. Rugged divots have begun to appear where carriage wheels turn relentlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Did she say that outright?” Mingi asks. His voice is far more grave than usual, peppered with a hint of obscure sadness. Yunho was lucky to have found his soulmate at such a young age. At least now, they didn’t have to fight life alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Finding one’s fated was a chemical reaction, and by all means, was just as stereotypical as it could be. Fireworks, fizziness, whatever else someone wished to attribute to the burning feeling that laced its way through a person’s veins was incomparable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The first time Yeosang’s pinky brushed Jongho’s at the community bonfire at age seven nearly set Jongho himself ablaze. And Yunho spoke similarly of the first time Mingi passed him a dainty daisy chain, meant to be a crown, and settled it upon his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It was painful,” Yunho laughed one night, recounting the experience. “He barely even touched me, but at the same time, it was like I couldn’t stop feeling him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But even then, it was uncertain if they were actually soulmates. Afterall, one cannot examine a beating heart for miniscule details that matched it to another. Only at death or replacement could such promises be secured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Staring at Mingi now, he feels a pang of sharp jealousy. Not in the way that makes him yearn for a relationship like his brothers’, but the sense that there was security to be found in something as set-in-stone as theirs. Neither had ever been accosted by a deadly experience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Not that Jongho himself had either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t think she needed to, Mingi,” he says softly. Yeosang’s fingers find his own in seconds. And he can’t stop himself from dwelling in the emptiness that comes with it. There is no hearth in his heart or buzz in his veins when Yeosang touches him. Not like there was years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But still, there is something. The heavy weight of warmth and adoration. The memory of a time far gone. And for that, Jongho is thankful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Let’s go inside,” Yeosang whispers. It’s a delicate sound; like dew on clovers. When Jongho meets his gaze, he can only nod. Yeosang takes that as the initiative to help him off of the stairs carefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Once they guide Jongho to the dayroom, Yeosang putters off to prepare tea. Mingi, however, lingers at the end of the couch until Jongho lets out a quiet laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Are you going to sit down?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You don’t mind?” Mingi says softly, lowering himself onto the cushions. “I didn’t want to intrude if you and Yeosang were going to have a moment or something. I can just as easily leave if–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Mingi,” Jongho interrupts, “please don’t think like that. You’re family, and even if you weren’t, the queen’s orders involve you as well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “They don’t–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “They do,” a voice says from the corridor. The heavy fall of footsteps echo as Yunho enters the parlor slowly. “The queen’s declaration applies to the whole country. Everyone at the market has been talking about it today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yunho,” Mingi says, frowning when his fiance sets a palm on top of his head. Yunho leans down just enough to press a kiss to Mingi’s cheek before taking a seat in their father’s armchair. The same the queen had occupied only an hour earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In Yunho’s silhouette, Jongho sees their father; all sharp angles, broad shoulders, and doe eyes. He’s the picture of elegance and more than adequate to call himself the Marquess of Narcissus. And Yunho’s attention falls on him with a dazzling smile. Charismatic bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We’ll get through it, Jongho,” he says boldly. It gives wings to the fear that lingers in the younger’s chest. Hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We better,” Mingi mumbles, “after all, it looks like we have a wedding to plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yeosang returns, depositing a warm cup of tea in Jongho’s hands, he offers a soft smile. The kind that thrives on brilliance and starlight. For now, it was best to take one step at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In a perfect world, the queen’s list was just that alone. A paper with names and no penchant for action. While he knows they don’t live in a utopia, he opts for the night just to sit with his family. After dinner, still thrumming with the burn of adrenaline, they flip through pages of wedding books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Orange blossoms are pretty,” Mingi suggests abruptly, “for a bouquet, I mean. Are you planning to do one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Purity? Chastity?” Yunho snorts, sparing a glance in Jongho’s direction. His brother’s face flushes a vivid scarlet as he processes the implication of Yunho’s words. However, Yeosang only smirks as he thumbs over the corner of the page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “A promise to bear many children,” he shrugs, catching Yunho’s suddenly wide stare, “I’m not sure that we’re capable, but who knows? The world is always changing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s probably improper to whack your fiance’s shoulder relentlessly, but in the comfort of his own home, Jongho doesn’t think it matters. Not when the move makes Yeosang giggle, deep and low in his throat, before covering his wide smile with a palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Having an heir was never something Jongho thought to consider. While he had always found beauty and attraction in both men and women, he was never forced to look at such topics in great detail. Not while Yunho and Mingi were the ones taking over the title and the estate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though lately, Jongho wasn’t certain he had been considering the future at all. His childhood and adolescence had been framed by his bond to Yeosang, but after the accident, everything had become uncertain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And now? It was like wading through opaque mist without a clear end goal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s cup of tea has long grown cold, but his chest feels heavy. As though he’s stuffed full of goose down and silk fibers, he wonders for a moment if he’s nothing more than a dress-form. A mannequin pushed into the corner of a seamstress’s workshop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      So, he does the one thing he knows how to do best. He runs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “If you all might excuse me,” Jongho says, “I’m going to turn in for the night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Fingers catch his wrist before he can get far, though. Stock-still and bleary eyed, Jongho meets Yeosang’s petulant expression. However, it falters the moment he registers the distant look painting Jongho’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t have to speak for his fiance to understand. Instead, Yeosang’s grip slackens as he offers a gentle frown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ll be up in a little while,” he murmurs, waiting for the subtle bob of Jongho’s head, “just leave out a set of your sleepwear for me? I wasn’t planning to stay the night, but…” he trails off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho watches the sharp point of one of his canines drag over his bottom lip. As though he’s the one that is nervous and plagued by the crushing blow of an invisible hourglass. However, the boat they wade the waters in is the same, Jongho supposes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Of course,” Jongho says softly, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Yeosang’s head. He snorts when the delicate black strands tickle his nose. Instead of letting him walk away, though, Yeosang cups his cheek and slots their lips together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s like embracing spring, but the delicate move ends far too quickly when Yeosang pulls away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi and Yunho guffaw at the bewildered expression that evidently paints Jongho’s face. However, if he could bring only the tiniest bit of joy, then that would be a future he could handle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As he climbs the stairs to his room, a single thought bounces around his mind like a stone upon a rippling pond. It hops twice before sinking straight into his throat; heavy and thick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      What happened to people like him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Was there an excuse to be found in the hallowed halls of their broken memories? Or was he simply an avatar meant to reroute fate for people luckier than him? He wonders who his soulmate is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And when Yeosang comes into the room, bare feet padding across the floor just as they always have, he can’t hide the tears that roll down his cheeks. Even with the comforter pulled up to his chin and the lamps blown out, there are some things that cannot be hidden from the one who knows him the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Jjong?” Yeosang whispers, obviously hoping not to startle his fiance into the heavens far above. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho rolls onto his side, praying that the moonlight doesn’t catch the dampness on his face. However, Yeosang has always been far more perceptive than most give him credit for. And with a gentle thumb and soft coo, he wipes away the stray sea salt– if one could call his tears just that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It gave dignity and adventure to the recluse who never left his own workshop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Why do you cry, darling boy?” Yeosang asks as he kneels beside the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t want to open his eyes. Doesn’t want to move or even let the other know that he’s still awake, but if he avoids it, they’ll never speak about it. The future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m scared,” he forces himself to admit. Embracing his emotions is by far harder than facing them. He could stare at them for an eternity while never having to come into contact with the thorn-damned vines and vice grip that was sure to be included. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yeosang sighs, it’s as though the world shakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What are you afraid of?” he asks, his thumb stilling against Jongho’s temple. It’s the divet beside his eye– right where Yeosang’s own birthmark rested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s hard to put his fear into words. How does one even begin to encapsulate the danger of drowning beneath the endless wave of time? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You,” he decides on. It isn’t worth the way Yeosang tenses beside him nor can he palate the intake of breath that breaks the air between them. “Don’t you feel at all the same?” Jongho asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And there’s silence found in the bated present. Trepidation founded only in the fossils of their past and the feeling of being truly alone. Jongho tries his best never to dwell on such agonies, but with his cheeks cast damp and a crimson queen breathing down their necks, his usual resolve is fragile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, Yeosang’s shock melts into something less than diamond hard. Malleable like indium, his expression folds under its own weight. Brazen horror into tender bashfulness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang’s palm settles against Jongho’s jaw as he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ve seen men die and felt bullets pierce my flesh, Jongho. But my greatest terrors all seem to pull me back to you,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      If they weren’t mere inches apart, there’s no way Jongho would have made out the words at all. Though, that doesn’t stop the sudden admission from toppling from Yeosang’s lips in the next moment either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t think I feared death nearly as much as I believed losing you would kill me,” he murmurs, “even as kids. I thought going abroad would make it easier to distance myself from the realization that I was no longer meant to be your fated. My own hubris was the reason I fell from that pathetic excuse for a tree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “To be fair,” Jongho sniffles, “the dogwood was old and you were dull enough to climb her branches.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He probably deserves the pinch Yeosang delivers to his cheek. Even so, it makes him giggle rather than continue his doom and gloom approach to their conversation. Their apprehension in life was similar. Dreadfully so, if Yeosang’s somber expression is anything to base it on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m not holding you back, am I?” Jongho asks. Maybe he shouldn’t, because that way, they could pretend to be ignorant. “From your soulmate, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang ponders that for just a breath. His eyes not leaving Jongho’s face in the pale light of the moon. He probably looks a mess, with sleep-drawn hair and puffy cheeks, but Yeosang doesn’t focus on those details. Instead, he only runs his thumb under Jongho’s eyes, picking up stray tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I met him,” Yeosang says finally. It’s an agonizing silver bullet wedged between the ribs of a mystical beast. And Jongho feels it with every breath as he struggles to find the right words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The ones that would free Yeosang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Then, you must–” Jongho tries, but finds his attempts silenced by a single finger pressed to his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He isn’t mine,” Yeosang whispers, “he wasn’t to begin with and he most certainly cannot be now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s a gentle statement, the kind that lingers in the empty hallways of forgotten homes. Nonetheless, it echos. Permeating Jongho’s mind and wisteria-heart like a piano melody meant only to be heard by the young and restless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And instead of asking the easiest questions– the ‘what happened?’s and the ‘who was he?’s– he opts for the one that he knows means the most to both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Did you love him?” Jongho asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Immediately, Yeosang frowns. Brows furrowed, he flounders for a moment before pulling his thoughts into a coherent statement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “As blood,” Yeosang says bluntly. He moves his hand to the front Jongho’s shoulder, pushing gently, until the younger makes room for him in the bed. “I don’t think fate is wrong, you know, but I do believe that it sets things up in a roundabout way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He and I served the same battalion. When we met, we weren’t destined,” Yeosang says, lifting the blankets to squeeze himself beneath them. Jongho didn’t notice that he had only thrown on the long sleep-shirt and forgone bottoms. However, with his chilly legs pressing against Jongho’s, it was obvious now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “There is a single code to abide during missions. In the case of an accident, don’t look back,” he says quietly. “Do you remember the assassination of the US diplomat last summer?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Of course, Jongho did. The attack was a complete surprise for both sides, sending the public into a massive news flurry the moment the information hit the tides. It also revealed the black market ties America had begun to thread through the rest of the world. In particular, the trade of fabricated organs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Jongho makes a quiet sound of affirmation, Yeosang sighs. His fingers work their way into the younger’s hair as he combs through it reassuringly. Such an event brought hundreds of changes to Jongho’s industry. Ones that he wasn’t particularly fond of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I was part of that mission,” Yeosang whispers, “and delivered the fatal blow. However, it wasn’t just me. My soulmate was on the squad as well.” He pauses, teeth finding the edge of his bottom lip. “We had only just infiltrated the sector of the regency building when we were split up. Wooyoung stumbled upon the target– alone. But we weren’t expecting the bastard to have his own gun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Did they know you were coming?” Jongho asks. It makes Yeosang’s breath catch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “No, but they were prepared,” he says, “I heard the shots ring out from across the quad, but wasn’t able to get to the scene until–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho feels it then. The way Yeosang’s frame trembles, the role reversal they both fall victim to. It draws an ache in Jongho’s chest as he wraps his arms tighter around his fiance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You don’t have to tell me, Yeo,” Jongho says gently, “this can always be a conversation for another day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I want to,” Yeosang mumbles, “but it’s like the words don’t want to come out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Jongho understands more than he cares to admit. The way language fails when one needs it most and how action seems to soil instead of blossom. He doesn’t wish for them to stew in rotten memories, though, if it means risking Yeosang’s sanctuary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      These four walls held far too much of their childhood to let rust tarnish the peace. So, Jongho coaxes a smile onto his lips and schools his expression into something presentable by the time Yeosang pulls away. It’s just enough that he knows the older wants only to confirm his sincerity; his reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “No,” Yeosang says firmly, “you deserve to know now. Even if the time doesn’t feel right or it’s quite like scraping the bottom of the barrel for gossamer scraps; the ghosts of my past cannot haunt our future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s hardly a song worth singing, Jongho thinks, but he won’t stop Yeosang from doing it either. Not all melodies were meant to be harmonious. And in a cacophonous jumble of broken vowels and twisted sounds, Yeosang seems to find his footing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “His name is Jung Wooyoung and his first heart was made of amethyst and feverfew. Three bullets housed in his chest cavity changed that quite quickly, though, so it isn’t as though it matters,” Yeosang recalls, “he had a match before me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s a broken statement that fills Jongho’s veins with misty sympathy. Someone like them, in the oddest of ways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “They wrote back and forth all of the time. Once, I even caught him pleasuring himself with one of San’s letters in his free hand,” Yeosang laughs at the memory, a fond expression melting into his features. It changes when a wave of nostalgia washes over him. “I issued Wooyoung’s discharge statement following the donor transplant procedure. I had to write to San about what had been done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “But you said he was your soulmate? How did you find that out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “When he was leaving, he gave me a hug. Simple, quick; it was the second worst pain I have ever felt,” Yeosang says, squeezing Jongho’s shoulder, “but don’t worry, our soul-bonding still takes first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I wasn’t worried,” he chuckles. It doesn’t make the heavy feeling in his lungs dissipate, but there’s a brief moment that it seems easier to manage. Like he wasn’t stuffing himself full of linen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And it isn’t a surprise that the tension in Yeosang’s limbs goes slack around him. Jongho knows, deep down, that Yeosang is the most honest man he’s ever met. Brutal to a fault when he needs to be, but cautious as a deer in winter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There are no wolves on the prowl tonight, though. Not when they are safely in each other’s arms. For the dusted midnight of a January evening, it’s peaceful. Even with crimson seas on the horizon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Where is he now?” Jongho asks after the silence reaches its crescendo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t know,” Yeosang says, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Jongho’s head. “I’ll be honest, it’s better that way. I care deeply for him, but never in the way that fate seems to want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’ve always been a cynic,” Jongho snorts and buries his nose into the smooth curve of Yeosang’s neck. “Do you remember what you told me when we held hands for the first time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang laughs then; full and beautiful. It lights fireworks before Jongho’s spirit as he listens closely to the sound. Rare, loud joy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That it was a chemical reaction,” he chuckles, “but that’s all love is anyway. Humans just declared silly little words to make ourselves feel better about all those weird emotions brewing in our veins.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Fate</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Soulmates</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Forever</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho thinks they all hold their own portion of honesty. A drop in the ocean, maybe, but at least it had the chance of causing a larger ripple. Or perhaps, he was a hopeless romantic stuck in a cruel game of tug-o-war.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When he falls asleep, it’s with the visage of amethyst cracking beneath feverfew restraints. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In the morning, he wakes to the sound of bare feet padding across the hardwood floor. Hardly opening his eyes, a chuckle draws out of his chest when he feels the still warm, but empty, mattress-space beside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Where’d you go?” Jongho mumbles as the bed dips under Yeosang’s weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang hums and unexpectedly straddles Jongho’s hips. Instinctively, Jongho grips the other’s waist with a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Lavatory,” Yeosang says, leaning forward to press his forehead against Jongho’s. When Jongho lets his palms drift down to Yeosang’s thighs, he’s met with bare skin. He squeezes the muscle there; relishing the smooth expanse with an appreciative smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What could have possibly gotten into you this morning?” he whispers. Yeosang grinds down on him with a snort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>☆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>      “I was hoping you,” he says. It runs like warm molasses through Jongho’s mind– sultry and sweet. “But only if you’re willing,” he adds suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      With the words, all of his ministrations come to a standstill. Apprehension, Jongho recognizes easily. Yeosang’s honesty didn’t make itself known only through speech. It’s something that Jongho has always been obscenely fond of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m more than willing,” he breathes, threading his fingers into the soft hair at the base of Yeosang’s neck. His grip tightens for a moment, testing the waters, but the gasp it draws from Yeosang is more than reassurance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He pulls the other closer, slotting their lips together, and groans quietly when Yeosang ruts downward again. It had been far too long since he had touched another person like this. With the outpouring of commissions tossed onto his doorstep, there had never been time to seek anyone else after Yeosang’s departure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And maybe, it was poetic in a sense. His first was the same who came back to him like a paper crane in the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      So, when Yeosang’s nips at his bottom lip with a mischievous, sleep gruff giggle, Jongho can only use the opportunity to quell the sting with his tongue. It evidently catches Yeosang off guard as he makes a quiet sound and slips his own into Jongho’s mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s messy, wet, and entirely too warm. But Jongho wouldn’t complain if it meant keeping the other close. Especially as Yeosang’s hips move to their own uncoordinated rhythm against his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “The blanket is in the way,” Jongho murmurs when Yeosang finally pulls away from him to breathe. He can feel Yeosang’s heart as it races deep within his chest– reminding him briefly of the previous afternoon. Of their future and past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang senses the way his thoughts begin to travel, evidently, as he rolls off of Jongho’s lap unceremoniously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Where–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You said the sheets are in the way,” he laughs. He throws the offending material off of Jongho and resumes his position with a grin. “Now, they won’t be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang takes the opportunity to work out of his borrowed top with half-lidded eyes. As it falls from his shoulders, revealing tan flesh and sharp collarbones, Jongho’s attention falls onto the hundreds of silvery scars peppering his skin. A worm-wooden mark just to the left of his abdomen is what makes the younger’s breath hitch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “A bullet,” Yeosang shrugs, tipping Jongho’s head up carefully. His fingers are slender and dainty under Jongho’s chin. “Let’s not talk about that now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He rocks his hips forward again, smiling when Jongho whimpers at the sudden pressure on his groin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s only then that Jongho realizes the thin fabric still separating them– his own silk sleep pants and Yeosang’s undergarments. Though, neither hide their obvious hardness. As Yeosang kisses his way down Jongho’s throat, he mumbles something incoherent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hm?” Jongho hums. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I said,'' Yeosang grunts, biting the sensitive flesh beneath Jongho’s ear, “take off your shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s not as though he gives Jongho a choice, however, as his fingers have already begun to undo the buttons at lightning speed. When he slips a cold hand beneath the material, brushing over a pert nipple, Jongho doesn’t fight the moan that rolls out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As Yeosang works the material over his shoulders, letting it fall in a delicate pool on the pillows, his fingers dance over Jongho’s skin. A blank canvas of honey, save for the occasional mole or spattering of freckles. And Yeosang touches him as though he’s crafted from stained glass and sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He knows that he’s fortunate. That his skin doesn’t hold the same marks and scars that Yeosang’s does. Perhaps that’s why he feels suddenly like drawing in on himself– like curving in on his spine and praying for better weather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re beautiful,” Yeosang whispers, pressing soft kisses to the dip of his collarbone, “why are you trying to hide?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s been a while,” Jongho breathes, “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang pulls away then, lips puckered and red. Jongho hates when his brows pinch in the center– he wants nothing more than to smooth out the furrows with his thumb. Especially when his lover stares back at him as though he’s not the same man he once knew. A figure of mystery shrouded in ash and dust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Why do you apologize?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Despite the desperation that still lingers in the room, the cloud of lust and familiarity, Yeosang manages to pierce his heart with a crimson arrow. It’s the sudden pang that they could have lived similar lives. If his parents hadn’t pulled him and Yunho from the academy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      If Yeosang’s only had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Because you’re a daydream and I’m hideous,” Jonho says. It’s hardly above a whisper, but Yeosang accepts it as a tear-mottled cry. He presses soft kisses to the corners of Jongho’s mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m the one who is covered in marks,” Yeosang says, cupping Jongho’s cheeks. “Your safety will never be hideous to me. Nor should my scars ever pose sadness to you, sweet boy. I’ve given life what I needed to and got what I deserved in return.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You aren’t angry?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That your parents kept you and Yunho far from bullets and blades? Darling, your talents for arsenic and lace are not trained for murder. They’re meant to provide protection,” Yeosang whispers. “I don’t hate my scars. I survived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You shouldn’t hate them,” Jongho says, leaning his forehead against the curve of Yeosang’s neck. The tendon strains under the sudden weight, but Yeosang simply hums and digs his fingers into Jongho’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t fight him when he leans down for another kiss. Nor when his tongue slips between his lips again, tickling the roof of Jongho’s mouth. He just sighs into the embrace and goes with the flow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Jongho’s hand slips beneath the other’s undergarments, Yeosang’s body shudders. Even so, he doesn’t want to force the older man into anything he is unwilling to give. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Should I–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi Jongho, if you don’t finish what you’ve started, I may bite you,” Yeosang growls and thrusts into his touch. “Please, just take off your stupid bottoms–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho laughs, cutting the other off, but does as he’s told with little complaint. Maybe, they were moving far too quickly. However, this was a race they had already run. This time, though, it was for the long haul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He slides out of his pajama pants, taking his underwear with them, and snorts when Yeosang all but launches himself out of his own. When Yeosang’s cock presses against his, Jongho squeaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Thank me later, but there’s Vaseline in the top drawer,” Jongho says suddenly. It pulls a soft gasp out of Yeosang as the older tilts his head and narrows his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’ve already moved past clove oil? How do you know you can trust Vaseline? The man who patented it was on our list–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yeosang, if you want my cock up your ass, I’m beginning you not to go on a work tangent. The last thing I want on my mind while we’re making love is a narrowly avoided assassination headline,” Jongho whines, ignoring Yeosang’s deep laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It would hardly have made the news,” Yeosang mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Nonetheless, he crawls across the bed to the nightstand. When he tosses the jar onto the mattress, Yeosang mutters something obscene about sperm whales and kerosene before straddling Jongho again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho pops the cork and carefully dips his fingers into the lubricant. Adding a glob to the back of his hand, he coats his index and middle fingers. It’s certainly different from clove oil, and he has a vial in his drawer if the new creation doesn’t favor Yeosang’s tastes, but it had served its purpose for his own self-pleasuring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m going to just start with one finger,” Jongho says softly, coaxing Yeosang onto his back. The older goes willingly; collapsing against the pillows like he was meant to be there. And really, Jongho supposes he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His middle finger circles Yeosang’s entrance tenderly. He teases the puckered rim, hoping that the petroleum jelly isn’t too cold for the other’s liking. However, the strangled hiss that Yeosang lets out is enough to make Jongho speed up the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      After all, he knows without question that Yeosang would make well on his promise to bite him if he didn’t hurry. He presses a kiss to the inside of Yeosang’s thigh as he eases the digit into the ring of muscle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The first sound Yeosang makes is a drawn out groan, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion. For a second, Jongho wants to pull out, however, Yeosang clenches around him when he tries to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Don’t,” the older pleads, fisting the sheets, “just give me a second. It’s been a while.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And so, Jongho does. He lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and just simply stays still until Yeosang adjusts to the feeling of having something inside of him. When he grunts out a quiet sound of affirmation, Jongho takes the time to slide his finger in just a bit further before sliding it out almost entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He repeats the action, carefully beginning to prod at the velvet of his inner walls, until Yeosang pleads for another to be added. And another. Each time, Jongho scoops a generous amount of Vaseline from the back of his hand and thanks the new discovery for not failing them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yeosang deems himself ready, he takes Jongho by surprise as he presses his hands to the younger’s chest and asks him to lay on his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I want to try something,” he says, instructing Jongho to put his wrists above his head. He does as he is asked, wanting only to please Yeosang, but is thrown into a separate dimension when the older straddles his waist again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What are you–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I want to ride you,” Yeosang murmurs. That damned pretty pink flush decorates his cheeks like candy floss. “If you don’t like it–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Please,” Jongho chokes out. His face is no doubt a similar shade of crimson, ears tipped the same, but he also can’t stop the pure arousal from coating him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang smiles sweetly and delivers a kiss to Jongho’s lips before fumbling for the jar of lubricant. He dips his own fingers into the pot, each time placing the sticky glob into the palm of his hand, before finally appearing content with the amount that he’s procured. And then, in a turn of pure luxury for Jongho, Yeosang’s hand wraps around Jongho’s length. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He gives a few strokes to the younger’s cock, chuckling at the whiny keens the action rips from his throat. At first, the sensation is overbearingly cold. But as Yeosang builds up speed, working Jongho’s erection to full hardness, he finds it impossible to notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m gonna…” Yeosang whispers, motioning vaguely as he lines up the tip of Jongho’s cock to his rim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Whenever you’re ready, angel,” Jongho says, hissing when Yeosang sinks onto him unexpectedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He knows it isn’t what he should be noticing right now, but he hopes Yeosang’s legs aren’t going numb. With the position they’re in and the amount of work he’ll have to put in, Jongho worries that Yeosang won’t find pleasure in his pursuit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, that fear is quelled as Yeosang moans, adjusting to the sudden fullness. Inch by inch, he spears himself on Jongho’s cock until his body trembles under the flush and sting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Do you want to pull off?” Jongho asks, breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang brushes him off with a shaky smile. Instead of speaking, he lifts himself up slightly before dropping down again. The heat and friction nearly makes Jongho tear up. Especially when Yeosang seems to grow accustomed to bouncing on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      For a moment, Jongho wonders if he’ll come before Yeosang. It’s a guilty thought, but is entirely fueled by his lack of practice and months of sexual frustration. But Jongho realizes that it’s a moot point, because Yeosang’s frame shakes wildly with every swivel of his hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho wants to grab them, to hold him down so that his fingers leave bruises for only Yeosang to see. However, he also knows that Yeosang’s grip on his wrists is iron-wrought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And when the older lets out a loud whimper, enough that there is no way Yunho and Mingi would miss exactly what they were doing upstairs, Jongho simply accepts that he’ll have to wait until next time to mark his lover up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho feels the way Yeosang squeezes around him with each thrust; how the boy adjusts their position just slightly until Jongho’s cock pushes against his prostate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m almost there,“ Yeosang whines, arching his back, “don’t pull out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He rocks forward, suddenly spilling onto his stomach, but doesn’t stop his ministrations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Keep going,” Yeosang pants, still shifting on Jongho’s length despite his evident oversensitivity. He’ll admit, the coiling heat in the pit of his stomach is nearly enough to make him pin Yeosang to the bed and take the boy apart even further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, the evidence of Yeosang’s orgasm paints his chest and every time he sees it, he is reminded that Yeosang already got what he needed. So, with a chuckle, he flips them over and slides out of Yeosang with a hiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Shit,” Yeosang whimpers, clenching around nothing, “let me at least help you finish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      If he takes his lover up on the offer to have his pretty lips around his length, who is to say?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, just after he tumbles over the edge and Yeosang chooses to obscenely kiss him with the same mouth that swallowed his come seconds earlier, there is a knock on Jongho’s door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>☆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>      They only have a breath to pull the sheets over themselves before Mingi is peeking into the room with a mischievous look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hey boys, hope you had a wonderful morning,” he says, red hair nearly matching the tips of his ears. At least the bastard had the decency to be embarrassed. “Jjong, you have a guest downstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s a weekend,” Jongho groans, “why would I take a customer today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi glances between the two, still very indecent, figures with a giggle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You seem like you’ve already taken quite plenty for the afternoon, I understand,” he snarks, not quite dodging the decorative pillow Jongho launches at his head. “I really think you’ll want to help this one, though. He says he knows Yeosang personally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      That catches Yeosang’s attention as he peeks out slightly from under the blankets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Me?” he asks, eyes wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You are Kang Yeosang, are you not? That’s what we’ve put on quite literally all of the wedding invitations,” Mingi mutters before turning on his heel. “We’ll be in the parlor. Please wear clothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Begrudgingly, Jongho obliges Mingi’s request. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When they finally manage to putter into the dayroom, a flash of dark hair charges into Yeosang’s arms before Jongho can even issue a greeting. And judging by the gasp that leaves Yeosang’s lips, there’s little reason to be concerned about their visitors being a threat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Wooyoung,” Yeosang breathes, his fingers bunching up the suede jacket wrapped over his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span> Jung Wooyoung</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jongho realizes. Yeosang’s fated. And judging by the forlorn expression that flickers across their other guest’s face, he believes it’s safe to assume that is San. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yeosangie,” Wooyoung says softly. His voice is much higher than Jongho expected, however, it fits the energy he carries. Like mountain blossoms on a riverbed. Bright, familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And by the way Yeosang clings to him, Jongho might even attribute a single word to Wooyoung. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It could hurt to see his lover in another man’s arms, but for once, Jongho can’t find the stinging resonance of apprehension. Instead, he’s filled with sudden sadness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In another life, would they have been together? If they were meant for each other in this one, there had to be some semblance of honesty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Still, Jongho stands tall, shoulders back and chin raised, to approach San. With a smile and an outstretched hand, he sighs when San clasps his palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi Jongho,” he introduces, bowing slightly. It makes San chuckle, drilling the sudden realization that</span>
  <em>
    <span> of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> his visitor knew whose home he stood in. However, San doesn’t let him flounder for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi San,” he grins, “it’s nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What brings you to our estate?” Jongho asks, motioning for the couple to take a seat on one of the couches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho has already occupied their father’s armchair with Mingi balanced on one of the rests. When Wooyoung and San settle against the cushions, the former frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’ve no doubt heard the ordinance the queen declared, yes?” Wooyoung asks, “I heard from an inside source that there’s a second portion to her demands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Seonghwa?” Yeosang asks suddenly, one of his eyebrows cocking into his hairline. The name catches Jongho off guard entirely as he remembers the queen’s servant. “He was here yesterday,” Yeosang adds, glancing at Jongho.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Wooyoung nods and folds his hands in his lap. Eyes downcast, he doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze as he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He told me to get San out of the country; to run as far as we possibly could. You know that she’s collecting the names of soulmates now?” he whispers, “I can’t imagine why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Because the queen is a child, Jongho wants to say. That she is chasing a utopia where fate makes all the right choices and she gets to play dress-up with her citizens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He keeps quiet though. This conversation doesn’t seem to include him, really. Not in the way it does Yeosang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Until suddenly, he’s pulled into it by a leather leash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We need your help,” San says suddenly. “I don’t know what that witch has planned, but I can’t risk her pulling me away from Wooyoung.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We already spoke to Hongjoong,” Wooyoung says, fear decorating his tone, “he’s willing to accept a commission for one of us—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “But not both. Which is why we’re here,” San finishes. It’s like listening to static and trying to pluck the proper words out of its ocean. Nothing makes sense— entirely scattered between the two men. But before Yeosang can complain, San is pushing forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Jongho, are you willing to craft a heart, away from the queen’s gaze, that matches another?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Like dipping his toes into the shady end of his estate’s pond only to lose his balance and fall flat on his ass, he can only wade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A matching set?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You don’t mean…?” he murmurs, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We’re asking you to work with the royal family’s personal Cœurdonnier, Kim Hongjoong, and create an identical pair of hearts,” Wooyoung says softly, “as of right now, my soul-bond to Yeosang poses a threat to both your marriage and my own relationship. But if we start over—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “If you rewrite fate—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That’s one less issue for all of us,” Yeosang whispers. His knuckles are white as he clenches his fists over and over. But Jongho sees the way his nails pierce crescents into his palms. The crimson that pools under them and speckles the pale skin like sparks in the distant night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Love is a chemical reaction. The stimulation of particular neural transmitters. The release of dopamine and Cupid’s pathetic arrow stuck in the ass of a fool sappy enough to accept it. And Jongho is just that— a hopeless romantic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, he doesn’t rely on false hope. And maybe, he doesn’t even believe in fate. So, with a sigh, he frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “but I can’t do that.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>✧ Find me on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/kyojinouji">@KyojinOuji</a></p><p>- Cheers! ✧</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. to be alone with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>✧ tw // violence ✧</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>“I'd swim across Lake Michigan.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I'd sell my shoes.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I'd give my body to be back again in the rest of the room;</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>to be alone with you.”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>
      <em>To Be Alone With You</em>
    </b>
    <em>
      <span> - Sufjan Stevens</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <span>      Jongho wishes, above all else, that he could close his eyes. The look that San gives him– thinly veiled defeat cast in a shadow of disdain– rakes its nails down his spine. It’s not a chilled expression dipped in the Hudson Bay, but a boiling, brimming pot of water settled on a wood-burning stove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Can I ask why?” Wooyoung whispers, “I don’t mean to come off rude, but we travelled all this way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang’s fingers find Jongho’s wrist, closing over the white cotton of his undershirt. The tiny cuts marking his palm bleed onto the fabric, staining it an inconsolable scarlet. But Jongho doesn’t pay it nearly as much consideration as he should. Not with the desperate couple sitting across from them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m not a god,” Jongho murmurs. He can’t stop his canines from worrying the skin on his bottom lip. Ripping and tearing the chapped flesh until iron flicks onto his tongue. “Cœurdonniers can’t rewrite fate; no matter who asks. We’re surgeons– artists. Whatever belief you all seem to have about the way things work can’t rely on me or my family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He can’t meet the couple’s teary gaze nor can he focus on anything that isn’t his own breathing. It’s slow and sputtering; constricted by ivy and torn like knuckles on brick. He never asked for this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, his compassion isn’t flat. He understands where San and Wooyoung are coming from– knows the path better than his own. It’s one guided by fear and strung along by anxiety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “That’s alright,” Wooyoung says softly, shattering the belligerent silence. “It’s far too much for us to ask of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m sorry,” he says again. It’s not an empty apology, and thankfully, Wooyoung seems to sense that. The other man stands slowly, bracing himself on the arm of the sofa, before kneeling just in front of Jongho.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The younger didn’t notice just how dainty Wooyoung’s features were at first. Like the precious petals of a waterlily, every single detail that paints Wooyoung is subtle yet sharp. In appearance, there is no doubt that he would be a perfect match to Yeosang. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, next to San he makes his home. A robin’s nest, bundling bright blue eggs, and cradled by holy branches. Separate, they seem like an unlikely comparison. But when they’re together, it’s obvious that no one else exists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And staring at him now, Jongho feels blessed to have the opportunity to meet Yeosang’s soulmate. Even if the title is no longer his own, he finds no bitterness left in his spirit as Wooyoung takes his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You have very beautiful fingers,” Wooyoung says, smiling back at Jongho. The mole under his eye is hidden beneath dark strands briefly as he cocks his head. “Do you not have an engagement ring?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s not a surprising comment, however, it does catch Jongho by the back of his neck like a kitten scruffed. The thought of jewelry had slipped his mind entirely. And when he whips toward Yeosang, eyebrows raised, his fiance’s expression makes him giggle nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I forgot,” Yeosang whines, shoving his face into his hands. “With everything going on, I forgot to pick one out. Why didn’t you two point it out?” he asks, glaring at Yunho and Mingi.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho gasps in mock offense, throwing a hand over his heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I wasn’t aware that I was in charge of your proposal details,” Yunho shrugs. It’s a playful comment, the kind their father would have made if he was still around to see his youngest fall into an engagement. “I actually didn’t notice either,” Yunho amends with a bashful smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Yunho’s playful energy always had a way of blossoming in the most opportune times. This meeting, of course, was no different. His brother was thankfully just the breath of comedic fresh air that they all needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t mind,” Jongho says with a reassuring shrug. His fingers intertwine with Yeosang’s, fitting together as though they were the fated pair instead. Or maybe, it’s just the years of familiarity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Truly, he did care. Just a bit. While he wasn’t one for the flashiest jewelry or pearlescent linens embroidered with a million crystals, he always had a place in his heart for fashion. Beautiful pieces of twisted metal; rings, earcuffs, and necklaces. Even a belt or two could be as intricate as his tastes extended. Classy, but still alluring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      So, of course he was a little disappointed to see Yeosang nod. And maybe, he should be glad. Yeosang was a notoriously bland gift-giver– not for a lack of trying. He just found it easier to provide careful necessities than the otherwise material niceties in life.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Schooling his expression away from the bitterness of milkweed, Jongho crosses his legs and turns his attention back to their guests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Thank you, Wooyoung, for complimenting my hands,” he says with a genuine smile, “it’s often that I hear such comments, but rare for them to come from a place of honesty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Wooyoung smiles, staring up at Jongho as though he descended from the heavens. Such a comparison could not be further from the truth, however, as Jongho remembers just what he denied the couple before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the other stands from his place on the floor and returns to San’s side, Yeosang finally finds it within himself to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You mentioned that Hongjoong already agreed to your terms,” he says slowly and cocks a brow. “How did you possibly manage to convince that careful bastard to do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The question spurs a laugh out of San. It stirs the embers of energy in the room, sparking an entirely different atmosphere than the gloom they were shrouded in only seconds earlier. Like flint and steel, San exists simply to breathe life into the universe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And from what Jongho can tell, he enjoys every bit of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He and I went to school together, but he’s closer to a brother than I’ve ever had,” he smirks. Beside him, Wooyoung throws an arm over his shoulder. With the way San melts into the contact, it’s more than obvious just how comfortable the men are together. “All I had to do was put in a good word with Seonghwa and he agreed in a heartbeat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho leans forward at that. Elbow stationed carefully atop his knee, gaze narrowed, he purses his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “The queen’s guard? Why would he support helping you under her snout?” Jongho asks. However, the pieces click into place just as a wicked grin covers Wooyoung’s face. It’s wolfish, enough so that Jongho nearly startles. Though, it’s also the true, obvious mark of an assassin; the ability to morph masks in seconds. Even if this expression isn’t meant to appear so dark and unruly, it still comes across as such. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Seonghwa is a sucker for a good love story,” Wooyoung says, “and while his husband may act quite the opposite, he’ll also do whatever Seonghwa asks if it promises a smile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hongjoong is married to Seonghwa?” Mingi mumbles from across the circle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Like the final drop in a full rain bucket, a chill rushes down Jongho’s spine. The afternoon Seonghwa stood in his parlor, he looked as though he wanted to be nowhere near the queen– as though one misstep would decapitate him. It was now so obvious why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He had been threatened; like all of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Are they soulmates?” Jongho asks with a frown. When San nods, he can feel the tension drop from his shoulders. “She’s using them as leverage against each other, then. Just when I thought her horrendous excuse for a reign couldn’t grow any more poorly, she goes and dumps rotten compost straight on top of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang chuckles beside him, squeezing his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Compost can be used to make something beautiful later on, you know,” he snickers, pressing his side flush to Jongho’s, “rotten or otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Despite the welcome warmth and familiar comfort, it is difficult to feel at ease. Not with the lingering effects of his decision still wafting over them. Therefore, when the weight of the world feels too heavy for his fissuring bones, he sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We have spare rooms,” he says softly, “you’re welcome to stay as long as you would like.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He hardly thinks to ask Yunho, the rightful owner of the house. Not with the way the older bounces excitedly in his seat at the suggestion. To him, it was nothing more than a big sleepover with new friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang chuckles at the sudden change in the room’s energy. Though, he doesn’t speak; especially as Wooyoung begins to rattle off his thanks attached to an intricate list of activities they could do while visiting. Instead, Yeosang only nods while his friend finds some sort of solace in their less than desirable situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Jongho catches his gaze, there’s a hint of humor twinkling in it. And of course, he melts to see the other man’s happiness. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Just as he always has.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>      San and Wooyoung’s stay brings them a steady set of hands to aid in wedding plans. The final weekend in January had long since been decided as the date, but that did not necessarily mean that those involved were content with the scheduling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi found frustration in the selection of florals available during the winter season. Yunho fought tooth and nail to have their snow-covered gazebo defrosted. Even Yeosang grew tired of the dull colors being thrown their way in the form of napkins and accent pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      All the while, Jongho sought solace in his workshop. Day by day, more commissions filtered through their door as the queen’s declaration took hold of the public. Now known as one of the few remaining Cœurdonniers supposedly untethered to the throne, he had an extensive waiting list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But more often than not, those names were crossed off quickly. For one thing a person in need of a heart cannot do is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Just as he drags a crimson-dipped quill through an elderly gardener’s request, a knock sounds off from the stairwell banister. It startles him into pulling the ink clear across the page and onto the mahogany.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang stares back at him, hazel eyes wide, as he pouts slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I didn’t think I was so hideous that it would scare you like that,” he grins, crossing the room in a stride. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The workshop isn’t large; much closer to the size of a half-study. There was one full wall of bookshelves, however, it had been converted into drawers and storage to house all of the knick-knacks he needed access to. His personal favorite aspect of the room was undoubtedly the dried flowers and herbs hanging from racks above the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yeosang approaches him, his fingers run along a sprig of thyme that lays haphazardly on the counter. Its green flesh crinkles under the touch, sprinkling onto the surface of the dark wood. However, that is not what pulls Jongho’s attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A red envelope rests in Yeosang’s grip; edged in gold leaf. The scarlet wax seal, emblazoned with a camellia, catches the light as his fiance drops it onto the desk. The moment their eyes meet, Jongho sees Yeosang’s calm and collected mask waver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “A mission?” Jongho asks, reaching for the letter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang only hums, leaning a hip against Jongho’s chair. The movement rattles the rack of bottles nearest to the wall, but neither pays the disturbance any mind as paper tears under careful fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s a short and simple letter addressed to both of them. However, what pulls Jongho’s breath straight from his lungs is the command issued on the page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      An assassination order and commission. One for the CEO of the top tea production company in the area. Something so silly, but still, so prominent in their lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Even then, Jongho’s throat constricts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She said that I was to be uninvolved in the killings–” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t think she wants you to carry out the attack,” Yeosang says softly, his eyes not leaving the page. The queen’s curling script, inky and tangled like the ocean depths, taunts them. “That’s my job. You’re being asked to study the target’s heart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The thought makes Jongho’s blood curdle in his veins.</span>
  <em>
    <span> The list</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Of course, she had certain individuals that would not stumble into his workshop on their own. Those whose hearts she desperately wanted to inspect; to pair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      To tear apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “When she told us that you destroy everything my occupation aims to create, I never expected that she would try to mend those hurdles on her own,” Jongho murmurs, staring at the pieces and parts of organs strewn across his workspace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He reads further down the page, frown only growing with every word. She wanted him to replace the CEO’s heart with a carbon copy match to one of the nation’s diplomats. By attempting to synthesize a soulmate connection between the two figures, her goal was most likely to establish trade routes into other countries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, that held no purpose if neither individual approved of the union.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She can’t expect me to perform the procedure wherever you happen to shoot him dead,” Jongho groans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Unfortunately, it appears she does,” Yeosang says softly. His breath brushes across Jongho’s cheek and tickles his ear as his arms drape over the younger’s shoulders. “Let’s talk about this later. You’ve been down here all day,” he adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Of course, he had. With the laundry list of commissions constantly rolling into their home, there was hardly a moment to be anywhere else. But to hear it spill from Yeosang’s lips in such a melancholy way was the same as watching the heavens pour their sorrows upon them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He refused to let them drown for a second time in her flood-ridden tempest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m sorry,” he whispers, craning his neck back just enough for Yeosang to nuzzle against the curve of muscle. He hadn’t meant to let the hours get away from him. “How is everything upstairs going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang presses a quick kiss to his throat before lifting his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Given that we have a wedding in just a few days and you’ve hardly been present to help with the planning? About as well as one might expect.” Though the words are thrown his way with a honeyed tone, it’s not difficult to see through Yeosang’s pleasant face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He’s well within his right to be absolutely pissed that his fiance was nowhere to be found while the rest of their household worked on the details of their union. With a bashful smile, Jongho bows his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re angry,” he says quietly. Maybe it’s silly to feel like a child awaiting a scolding. However, if he knew anything about Yeosang, it was that he delivered quite a nasty bite when provoked. “Please don’t be angry. I can make it up to you,” Jongho murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang raises a brow, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply nods as though instructing Jongho to ‘get on with it, then’. The gesture draws a chuckle out of Jongho’s throat as his hands find Yeosang’s waist. Carefully, he maneuvers him until the older straddles his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang instinctively wraps his arms around Jongho’s neck. Vinelike and tight, it’s not an unappreciated weight. Rather, the embrace acts as an anchoring point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s grip finds its way into Yeosang’s dark hair. The strands move over his fingers like velvet as he combs through them gently. There was a time when he never thought that he would see this man again. Nights that left him wondering where their future could have travelled if Yeosang’s adventurous spirit hadn’t pulled them so far apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He isn’t sure that he believes in fate. Yeosang’s return was a dream with tangible repercussions, however, it was a decision that the man himself made. There could have been an invisible red thread tracing his path back to Jongho’s door, but if he couldn’t see it, then the proof wasn’t there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The only reality was the warm body in his arms; the lips against his own. Tongue still tasting vaguely of sugarcubes from tea, or whatever he snuck from the kitchen on his way to the workshop, Yeosang laps at the seam of Jongho’s mouth. When he doesn’t gain immediate access, he gives an indignant huff before grinding down on Jongho’s crotch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The motion draws a gasp out of the younger. In an instant, Yeosang takes advantage of the slip up to slide his tongue between Jongho’s lips with a hum. However, a cough from the doorway makes the two leap apart in seconds; as though they’re not due to be married in simple days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wooyoung stands with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed. At first, Jongho assumes that the irritated stance is directed at him until he catches the way Yeosang’s gaze drifts to the floorboards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What happened to bringing Jongho upstairs for dinner?” Wooyoung asks, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “I’m certain Yunho told you to come right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I was no help in the kitchen,” Yeosang whines, “Especially, if I washed the potatoes incorrectly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The comment makes Jongho snort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “How does one not know how to wash a potato? What did you do, use soap?” he asks. However, when he’s met with absolute silence, he realizes his mistake. “You did, didn’t you? Why would you possibly consider using soap, Yeosang?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “If you merely wanted me to rinse them, perhaps the word ‘scrub’ shouldn’t be involved,” Yeosang mumbles, giggling quietly when Jongho loops an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He had missed such comfortable love in the years Yeosang had been abroad. The kind that wasn’t limited by silly mistakes or brief silences. Being beside each other meant understanding and accepting the little moments and taking them in stride. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The domestic way of living had never been one that he expected to enjoy. Not one for much physical contact, it took a particular level of intimacy to initiate such displays of affection. But Yeosang was similar. And for that, he was entirely thankful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Dinner,” Wooyoung says with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t come in reeking of sex because I’m certain Mingi might launch himself off the third floor balcony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “After what we heard last night, I’d tell you the same,” Yeosang shoots back. It earns a wild squeak from Wooyoung before the brunette is spinning on his heel and charging up the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Still, the crimson and gold letter on Jongho’s desk pulls all of the humor from his lungs when it catches his attention again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      For years, the affluencials in the area sent their children away to prepare them for life in the real world. The realm that came baring fangs and dripping venom from its maw. The one that sent calculated death to their doorsteps more often than not and laced tea with belladonna. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The best way to outsmart an assassin was to become one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And when his parents fell victim to the very thing they tried to shield their sons from, it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Afterall, they ran from that life– away from the protection the academy sought to provide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho could only imagine his mother snatching the parchment from his hands and tossing it into the fireplace.– edges smoldering and ashy; gold peeling away like pathetic wedding confetti. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He should only be thankful that he was not the one being commanded to deliver the final blow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What if he dies?” Jongho whispers, gaze unwavering as he meets Yeosang’s eyes. “The CEO– Shin Kyubin. If I can’t perform the procedure–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You can,” Yeosang says softly. His thumb brushes the high point of Jongho’s cheek. “Trust me, you’re more than capable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And though he wishes he could believe it, his own wisteria heart withers at the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “How do you know?” he asks, leaning into the touch. It’s tender and delicate like violet petals. The sweet, angelic feeling of home and the nostalgia that tickles chins in the arms of night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang presses a kiss first to the tip of his nose and then his lips. A soft, feather-light gesture that he hardly registers before it’s over. Chaste yet still memorable.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It wasn’t as though he expected his fiance to have an answer, but perhaps, that’s why Yeosang’s deep voice surprises him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You forget how long I’ve been yours,” Yeosang says, breath ghosting Jongho’s lips. “If anyone can do it, my love, it’s you. For better or for worse, it’s always going to be you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When they part for dinner, Jongho is certain of only a handful of things. The first being the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Its sour rolling and nauseous embrace. The second being something far worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang loved him, but all the same, thought him capable of challenging fate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And for their sake, Jongho found himself praying that he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>      Shin Kyubin’s heart was to match an unidentified piece crafted by Hongjoong earlier in the year. The individual the queen was attempting to pair him off with was unnamed, as far as Jongho knew, but that did not make him feel any less disgusted. He was meddling with something no human should have the opportunity to touch. Destroying a perfectly good body only to replace it with a less-than-perfect gear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho may also have been a perfectionist. All he had to work off of were the dozens of sketches and notes he had been delivered with the letter; Hongjoong’s personal research. Things that he couldn’t imagine the other Cœurdonnier was at all willing to hand over to the royal nightmare herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, he made sure that every recorded scratch– every individual etching in the apatite crystal he cradled so gently– was identical to Hongjoong’s work. It wasn’t as though they still had access to the original piece. That had long since been transferred to its real owner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Someone who probably needed the procedure to survive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And when it came to weaving the Chinese bellflower through miniscule holes along the surface of the stone, Jongho wanted nothing more than to strangle a man he had never met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Kim Hongjoong’s work was phenomenal. Stunning, of course, but beyond all else, intricate. Every single millimeter of his design was made to be irreplaceable and impossible to replicate. And if Jongho was a less than determined soul, he might have given up long before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Especially with the wedding approaching faster every day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, their honeymoon would have to wait. The unfortunate reality of their new occupation had little room for personal decision. At the hands of the queen, it was lucky they were even able to carry through with their wedding plans. However, she still thought them to be a fated pair and refused to let them reschedule.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As if Jongho would have even entertained the idea anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It is only Thursday night when Jongho finally finishes the piece. Or perhaps, one might consider it the early hours of Friday morning. Though, he doesn’t think much about the technicalities as he settles into his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Not with his fiance, beautiful and serene, cast in the silver light of the moon. His eyelashes catch the beams like stardust as they flutter open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Finally,” Yeosang murmurs, his voice laced with the golden threads of sleep. Jongho throws an arm over his waist, pulling a contented noise from the other, and settles against the curve of his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Their bed smells like vanilla and smoke– no doubt the result of yet another failed dinner attempt. However, it paints Jongho’s face with a fond smile as he buries his nose in Yeosang’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      After minutes of silence, Jongho can’t fight the question that has nested on his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Do you ever wonder if we’ve lived before?” he whispers. “Another time, another world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You believe there are other worlds, love?” Yeosang asks, but still rolls to look at him. This close, Jongho can make out the little specks of pink that spill from Yeosang’s birthmark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho hums. Of course, he had to hope. One galaxy held so much more than they could even begin to imagine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Is it so hard to dream that we’re doing something right?” he replies quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He realizes then just how long it took him to respond. How he speaks now not to his lover, but Yeosang’s delicate, sleep-drawn expression. And in a sense, he feels the way his lungs constrict. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He was alone to ponder only what he thought of so desperately in their time of need. Cotton fibers lodged in his throat, dandelion puffs spilling from his lips. Maybe, some things are better to be kept to oneself. Things like fears and wild, extravagant concepts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Things like the universe and the future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When he wakes, it is to an empty bed and the scent of coffee wafting through the halls. But instead of pulling himself from the sheets, he rolls onto his back. The ceiling isn’t intricate; unlike the rest of the mansion. Plain mint to match the striped wallpaper with ornate white borders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, it is not a bland sight to behold. Not when the dots and spots from the ill-aged paint texture give him hundreds of shapes to turn into whatever he would like. Faces every which way– old and young– or the fox jumping over the moon. An oak tree in the corner and a whale just above the door frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Plenty of things to stare at as to not enter the hustle and bustle downstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Or rather, that is what he would be doing if a particular trio didn’t bound into his room like all three heads of Cerberus had been given their own bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Up, up, up” Wooyoung chants, throwing himself onto the mattress. The wooden furniture beneath them gives a mighty creak as he bounces again. “You, Mingi, and Yunho are due to set out on the town for the afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “And why would I possibly do that?” Jongho groans and reaches for his pillow. To cover his ears or suffocate himself, he isn’t exactly sure. However, it’s pulled from his grasp just as quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      San snorts and squeezes it to his chest when Jongho whines dramatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Because you’re getting married tomorrow to </span>
  <em>
    <span>my fated, </span>
  </em>
  <span>who also happens to be my dearest friend, and I want to spend time with him,” Wooyoung says as he jabs at Jongho’s shoulder. “You’ll get to hog him for the rest of your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The comment catches Jongho off guard. While Wooyoung did not make his bond with Yeosang overwhelmingly obvious, it seems that some part of him wasn’t ready to let go just yet. It was platonic, of course, but also designated by fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      With a soft sigh and subtle nod, Jongho rolls out of bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A trip into the shopping district could hardly hurt. He was in need of new needles and wool roving after all. Most of his projects used crystalline materials and florals, but there were always the couple dozen that found their way to his door that asked for softer creations. Those were always the warmest, most comforting people to work with, he realized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Is Yunho downstairs?” Jongho asks, directing the question toward Mingi. It isn’t as though the man operates as his brother’s keeper, however, he might as well. Someone had to watch over Yunho’s antics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi nods, brown eyes twinkling in the morning light. Sweeter than honey, no one would suspect that the man graduated at the top of his class in the academy. But the set of stiletto blades strapped to his thighs told another story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Sipping tea with Yeosang,” he chimes back. Jongho watches as the other man pilots the other duo out of the room. “See you in a jiffy,” Mingi calls before the group galvants down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho fights the urge to burrow beneath the cozy blankets still unsettled on his bed. While they beckon him like a siren’s song, he instead sets forth to pull an outfit from his closet. Simple, but befitting of a respectable man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His father had always made one thing clear. If any luxury was to be had, it should always be cast into appearances. Faking it to make it, truly. Because in a world that operated on fate, little was left up to individual choice. But clothing was one of the few negotiations a person could make.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He pulls out a black collared undershirt. The center section’s stitching features an elegant satin trim, ruffled just slightly to enhance the silky sheen of the material. Even the glittering obsidian buttons, carved with ornate designs, spell out opulence to the viewer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Pairing it with a vest of crimson and onyx embroidered tapestry, dark slacks, and chains embellished with dripping ruby crystals, he nods at his appearance in the mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Was it a common appearance? Heavens, no. But was it eye catching? Without a doubt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And evidently, the others think so too as he meanders into the parlor minutes later. Their hoots and whistles bounce off of the walls, drawing a deep blush onto his cheeks. Particularly as a certain individual pauses, porcelain tea cup pressed to his lips and one perfect eyebrow raised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang stares at him with an expression that Jongho can’t quite decipher. Surprise surely laces it, however, the heated ember that smolders beneath it all lends to a trained thought. Hunger. Desire. Admiration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      All things that make the little hummingbird in Jongho’s rib cage sing rapturously while pounding its wings against his lungs. Things that make his irritation from the night before melt away like sea salt in a thunderstorm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You look nice,” Yunho says with a smirk. He lowers the biscuit he was holding back onto its platter with a soft sound. “Here I thought we’d be pulling you into town on a leash,” he adds, not quite defending himself when Jongho flicks his forehead on his way to his seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He presses a quick kiss to the apple of Yeosang’s cheek as he reaches for the mug of coffee Mingi passes him. It draws a precious giggle from his fiance’s throat, painting a brilliant smile onto Jongho’s lips. A day of relaxation before their wedding was well-deserved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Especially if it brought such joy to the household.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Make sure you take a weapon,” San suggests from his perch on the counter. In his hands, he cradles a slice of orange. The delicate scent wafts over the room; refreshing and tangy. However, the hidden meaning beneath San’s words sours the experience entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho knows better than to protest. In a room full of trained assassins and loved ones, there was no arguing with someone who only was looking out for his best interest. And in a realm where a Cœurdonnier could go for a pretty penny, there was no sense in tempting fate any more than they already had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      On their way out to the carriage, he pulls an engraved flintlock pistol from the threshold set of drawers. Its gold face catches the light as he sets it on the wooden surface to attach the holster to his belt. He wasn’t particularly well-versed in shooting, nor was his aim anything to be proud of, but a gun was more optimal than close-range weapons. Even if it felt heavy in both his hand and throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Holding a pistol was never something he was comfortable with. It made his lungs fill with cotton and face hot as he tucked it into the case on his hip. Would he ever have to pull the trigger, he is certain his hands would shake far too terribly to land a good hit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The sound of his own heartbeat nearly masks the footfalls on the hardwood behind him. However, he thankfully recognizes the sound of Yeosang’s boots just as the man’s arms loop around his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Chin hooked over Jongho’s shoulder, Yeosang chastely kisses the curve of his jaw. When Jongho sighs into the embrace, the older smiles against his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Be safe, you hear?” he says quietly. His breath dances over the sensitive flesh and early morning stubble; sending a shiver down Jongho’s spine. He can only hum in response as Yeosang spins him carefully until his back meets the ridge of the drawers behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Slotting their lips together, Jongho melts into the taste of elderberry tea that lingers on Yeosang’s tongue. Vanilla, or whatever sweet scent it is that always seems to cling to his lover, lingers when they separate. And of course, Jongho only hopes it sticks to him on his way into town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It calmed him more than any weapon ever would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Always,” Jongho finally whispers, ghosting one final kiss onto Yeosang’s lips. “Don’t let those ghasts burn down the estate while we’re gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang laughs as they pull apart. While it wasn’t as though Jongho knew what the three were planning to do with their time alone in the manor, he also trusted them more than he let on. Or rather, he trusted Yeosang and hoped that his fiance wouldn’t let their home turn to ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yunho and Mingi pull him to the carriage, he waves from the tiny window as the wheels begin to turn. With every rotation on the cobblestone drive jostles his bones to their very core, reminding him of one of the many reasons he rarely chose to travel. Not due to his social reclusion or slight anxiety spurred on by crowds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, he does have to stifle a slight gasp as they arrive into the town square. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Despite it being late January, the center fountain filters water in a spectacular show of iridescent droplets. They catch the sunlight briefly, casting prisms into the air, before plummeting into the coin-littered depths. He supposes that he should thank the rare afternoon of nice weather for such a sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And possibly, his brothers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Where to first?” Jongho asks abruptly, tearing his own gaze from the view. The last thing he needs is for Yunho and Mingi to pick up on his appreciation. They would never let it go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho shrugs and quirks a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s your last day as a free bird. The decision is on your shoulders.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t miss the way Mingi grins behind him. Obviously, he picked up quite quickly how pleased Jongho was to be out of the house. If he was less interested in appearances, he might throw a playful punch into the man’s shoulder. At least that way, Mingi couldn’t taunt him about being right for a few seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      With a pout, he points in a random direction and hopes that a store of worth is in the area. And when he lifts his gaze, he realizes that luck is somehow on his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A small herbal shop stands proud, shoved between a bookstore and a tea parlor, just across the square. It’s the kind of hole-in-the-wall outlet that would no doubt have materials for his next list of commissions. And if he was lucky, he could even stop by the floral section next door to pick up fresh plants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Possibly even a bouquet for Yeosang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We brought you out here to take your mind off of work,” Mingi snorts, but wanders in the direction of the herbalist’s anyway. The comment does make Jongho smile– much to his own dismay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Getting away from his craft wasn’t something entirely possible. However, he wasn’t going to bring that up to Mingi and Yunho. The last thing he wanted to talk about on his free day was the assassination taking place right after his own wedding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The door to the herbalist’s swings open easily. Its red paint chips off in nearly a dozen different places, yet it still manages to radiate a youthful, homey aura. Especially when it triggers the delicate chime of a bell somewhere just out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The air smells of jasmine, rosemary, and patchouli. It springs blossoms in Jongho’s chest as he takes in the calming atmosphere of the shop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ll be with you in a second,” someone calls from the back room. Jongho nods dumbly, as though the individual can see his reaction, and ignores the snort that leaves Mingi in favor of inspecting a nearby shelf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Its surface is littered with crystals of all cuts; some polished and some raw. The colors are so vibrant that he finds himself nearly floundering in awe. The onslaught of inspiration that strikes him nearly offsets his balance entirely. He has only just begun to fill one of the nearby mineral trays material when a soft laugh radiates nearby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The sound makes him jump and nearly tip the goods onto the hardwood. However, he steadies himself just in time to catch the shopkeeper flutter to his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Careful,” the man says, reaching for Jongho’s hands. His nails are painted with a glittery iridescent polish and catch the light like prisms hung from window panes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m sorry,” Jongho utters, flush painting his cheeks. The man before him is ethereally beautiful, but radiates an aura more powerful than even the queen’s. When his gaze meets Jongho’s, he smiles brilliantly and waves him off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Nonsense,” he says, letting go of the tray in Jongho’s hands. “I’m Kim Hongjoong. Welcome to Treasure. If you need the owner, he won’t be back in town for a few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The name rings familiarly to Jongho. Though, the face is not one he could ever imagine himself forgetting. Chalking the connection up to word of mouth, he crosses an arm over his stomach and bows slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Choi Jongho,” he says before motioning at his brothers, “my brother Jeong Yunho and his husband Song Mingi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I took our father’s last name,” Yunho says with a smile before offering his palm to Hongjoong. The other man shakes it politely as Yunho tacks on a quick, “Not that I had a choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It was a bizarre decision on their parents’ part, but one many old families chose to operate under. Maintaining the power of a name through age made it simpler to dictate an heir. And truly, Jongho didn’t find himself souring over it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Perhaps that is why Jongho prepares himself to answer those questions rather than the one that spills from Hongjoong’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Kang Yeosang’s fiance?” he asks, cocking his head. When Jongho’s mouth pops into a tiny ‘o’, the man before him chuckles. “I’m an old friend of his. We served in the same battalion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And in that moment, the gears click into place. The other Cœurdonnier; the one San and Wooyoung had originally asked for help; that Hongjoong. The wedding ring on his finger reflects the light pouring in from the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re married to the queen’s assassin,” Jongho says slowly, “you both work directly under her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Hongjoong’s face pales with the comment. As though the very suggestion of his allegiance was something he would rather never speak of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s odd. Most people in such a position would take pride in their status. However, Hongjoong appears to feel exactly the opposite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re correct,” he grits out, “but don’t misunderstand. Seonghwa and I are only doing what we must to survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And despite the hostility that seems to bristle along Hongjoong’s words, Jongho doesn’t fear the man before him. After all, he would be a hypocrite to ignore how similar their narrative was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I understand entirely,” Jongho says, holding out a hand. Hongjoong glances at the limb with a raised brow. And for the briefest of moments, Jongho wonders if he misinterpreted the situation. That Hongjoong believes he sides with the queen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Until suddenly, a cheshire grin paints his lips as he slots his own palm against Jongho’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s an honor to finally meet you, you know,” he says. There’s a bashful blush that dusts his cheeks as he speaks. “You’re not much younger than me, but I feel like you’re leagues above.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s own face colors crimson as he listens to the other man. It wasn’t a lie to say many praised Jongho’s talent. However, it was rare that honesty bled into those compliments. The candid respect of another person in his craft is enough to send his spirit soaring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You as well,” he mutters when Hongjoong finally drops his hand. He didn’t need to explain how little he actually knew of the other man’s work. If Hongjoong replaced Wooyoung’s heart in the midst of an assassination mission, that was certainly proof enough that he deserved his status. And from what Jongho had seen of his sketches, he was meticulous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Hongjoong smiles before puttering back to the cash-counter. He places his elbows onto the cherry wood as he tilts his head inquisitively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What brought you all by today? I may not know nearly as much as Eden about herbs, but I can at least point you in the right direction.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho laughs and begins to move further into the store. While his brother had never been too invested in the craft, he was always a delight to be around when it came to picking out new pairings. As children, he had quite the habit of taste-testing random plants outside– so perhaps that was what made him so well-versed in the topic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We simply wanted to give Yeosang a bit of alone time with Wooyoung and San,” Mingi shrugs, cradling a jade sphere. Its intricately carved surface draws Jongho’s eye as the other man rolls it between his palms. “Not that we had much of a choice anyway. Jongho here was going stir-crazy staring at your notes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “They’re intense,” Hongjoong chuckles, “but they were legible at least, right? I’d hate to have just passed you pages of chicken scratch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      While the writing wasn’t particularly easy to read, it also wasn't a nightmare. There were far worse records in Jongho’s own collection. If Hongjoong’s were to be considered messy, he didn’t have the brainpower to come up with a term strong enough to describe his own father’s work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The group falls into a lighthearted conversation as Jongho fills his tray with crystals, rosemary, lemongrass, and thyme. He doesn’t wish to bulk down the carriage on their way home, however, the tender love put into the shop’s goods was obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s only when Jongho is ringing up his total that Hongjoong grabs his wrist gently. Yunho and Mingi had stepped outside minutes earlier to get away from the strong scent of incense, leaving the two alone. Though he knows Hongjoong means him no harm, he can’t help his eyes from widening as his heart rate quickens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Be sure to tell Seonghwa hello tomorrow,” Hongjoong says. His eyes are narrowed as a leaden weight attaches itself to his tone. It dips into grave territory, laced with dark molasses, as he releases Jongho’s wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Wordlessly, Jongho stares back. A soundless conversation sparking between the two, he’s quick on the uptake. Hongjoong won’t be present at the event; despite receiving an invitation. Because two Cœurdonniers in one place was not only a recipe for disaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It was a potential conspiracy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And so, Jongho brings it upon himself to nod; slow and calculated. While they may be alone in the small shop, there was no telling what could be lurking around the corner. Eyes found their way to the tiniest cracks and crevices of log cabins; easier than rocks tossed through glass homes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      After all, it was only human nature to be attracted to mystery. Even if it was at the expense of someone else’s misery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I will,” Jongho says gently, gathering his things from the counter. He watches as the corners of Hongjoong’s eyes crinkle like thick paper. A forced expression rather than an honest one; Jongho knows. When the weight of the world fell upon their shoulders, there was little else they could do but fake appearances and pray their ulterior meaning was cast in the right light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Hongjoong waves to him as he wanders out of the herbalist’s in a daze. His heart pounding in his chest, fingers tightly clenching the brown wrapped paper, the only goal is to get home. To fall into his bed next to Yeosang and hold on for dear life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He had only ever dreamed of dipping his toes in the ponds of promise. But here, with the queen breathing down his neck and everything he worked for spilling down the drain, there was far more at stake than tepid luxury. It was growing far too difficult to tell if he was up to his shins in the icy water or if that well had long since dried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The bell on the door jingles lightly as he pushes through it. Mingi, leaning against the wide display window, raises a brow at Jongho’s sudden pallor. In a second, he is pushing away from the wall to grab the younger’s shoulders with a huff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Why do you look like Hongjoong ripped into you?” he asks quickly, tilting Jongho’s chin with his fingers. “Lord, Jongho, you’ve gone pale. Come sit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi leads him to the fountain as they rest on its stone edge. There, he rubs circles between Jongho’s shoulder blades carefully until Jongho regains just a smidge more color in his cheeks. Yunho, however, is nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Where–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Mingi interrupts, “and anyway, it doesn’t hold precedence right now. What happened between you after we stepped outside?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho pauses, unsure of how far in depth he should actually explain the situation. Was it meant to be kept a secret? Perhaps that had been why Hongjoong waited until his brothers left the shop to bring it up. Or maybe, it was simply easier to speak of danger in hushed tones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He asked me to tell his husband hello tomorrow,” Jongho says. Consider it him opting for the safest route– the one that hopefully won’t tangle Mingi in the queen’s web. If there was anything he could ask for in life, it would be to keep his family out of the thicket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi’s brows pinch in the center. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe a word jOngho says– or rather that he knows the full truth has not been spilled. However, he also does not push the younger to speak more about the topic. Not when he knows vaguely of the tightrope they all must walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Right,” he mumbles, chewing on the skin of his bottom lip. His gaze doesn’t travel to meet Jongho’s. Instead, he stares at the tips of his fingers as though they’re carved with lies and dipped in crimson. “Be sure to relay that message to Seonghwa then,” he adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho feels the emptiness that tinges Mingi’s words. It’s the dull edge of a kitchen blade dragging along his wisteria heart; a pang in his chest, bloated and throbbing. But he doesn’t reach to mend the tear that spreads invisibly between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There were some things better left unsaid– even if the ache was unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho digs the toe of his patent leather boots into the cobblestone of the village square. They’re already scuffed up, much to his dismay, but it’s nothing a little polish wouldn’t solve. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Appearances, always</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The silence grows roots as neither man pushes the other to speak. It’s against Mingi’s nature really. Shoving people into uncomfortable conversations was never a particular talent for those who walked a path of eggshells. And above all else, Mingi would never touch a heart that wasn’t his own– in the form of words or otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s only the second that Jongho opens his mouth to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>that a voice cuts through the quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “A Cœurdonnier walking among common folk?” a man grins, his wide brimmed hat pulled low. “Odd to see one of you out of your ivory towers. To what do we owe the honor?” His speech is thick with saliva. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s neck nearly snaps with how quickly he whips to stare at the newcomer. Even from a distance, he can see the rot that lingers between the man’s yellowing teeth. He isn’t one to judge, however, the man spits a wad of chewing tobacco far too closely to Mingi’s left shoe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Two other men flank him. One whose hand is positioned far too closely to his hip for Jongho to feel comfortable and the other thumbing the hem of his trouser pocket. It’s obvious that they weren’t planning to have a friendly conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Why don’t you come with us for a second?” the first man asks. His lips are chapped and bleeding. However, what draws Jongho’s attention isn’t the immediate threat closing in on them. It is instead the vivid red rash climbing its way up his throat. His veins stick out prominently in a number of places– stark blue against the scarlet patches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Sepsis. Judging by the angry appearance of the markings, there was no doubt it was nearing its final stages. While there wasn’t a way for him to be certain, he had seen it in far too many people over the years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You should go rest,” he says gently, “have your friends realized you won’t be much help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “What in Sam Hill are you yammering about?” their intruder barks. When his heavy steps come in closer, Jongho bites the inside of his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      His molars slice through the fatty flesh, pooling iron onto his tongue. It stings, for just a breath, but the ache distracts him from feeling human. From experiencing the guilt he knows will set in as soon as this interaction is over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He knows what camellias look like dipped in crimson. Lest he learn how blood splatters on cobblestone too, he grabs for Mingi’s wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Run,” he says, already dragging the older behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Thankfully, it doesn’t take Mingi even a tick to get his ass in gear. Though neither know why they’re being chased, there seems to be an unspoken agreement fluttering in the air between them. The square is far too crowded for any kind of confrontation– violent or otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When they pivot around one of the brick walls outlining a back garden alley, Jongho watches Mingi’s nimble fingers yank his stiletto blades from their holsters. Their dual metal glistens in the afternoon light, casting fractals of iridescence onto the cobblestone. His own hand flies to the pistol secured to his belt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You don’t think they want a fight, do you?” Jongho asks, cocking a brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Something tells me they just might,” Mingi grits out, eyes dark. His expression is a ghost of the loving creature Jongho knows as his brother-in-law. “What are the odds they have a bone to pick right when Yunho travels out of sight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho holds his tongue. There was no doubt the men had been watching them, though he had no idea from where. And just as simply, he also couldn’t guarantee that they weren’t specifically tracking the three.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      How else would they know about his career?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He doesn’t follow the train of thought long, however, as heavy footfalls echo down the corridor. So it seemed, their illustrious company had kept up with them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho frowns. If Yeosang was here, he would probably deliver some opinion about wrinkles and lines. Really, he almost misses his fiance’s snarky commentary as the mens’ shadows round the brick corner of the alley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You trying to hide, little mice?” the man in the wide brimmed hat asks. The sneer painting his lips makes Jongho’s stomach clench uncomfortably. He never wanted to hurt someone, but Yeosang was waiting for him back home. And because of that, he would do anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It is obvious that the men are unskilled with weapons. If it wasn’t clear enough by the way one fumbled with the switchblade in his fingers, then how the other thumbed the trigger of his pistol made it crystal. Jongho wills himself to be angry about the relief that floods his system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      They weren’t assassins; much less people sent by the queen. If that was anything to go by, it meant they were simple poachers in search of nimble fingers and intricate minds. Against a student trained in the art of death and someone who knew a heart like the back of his hand, they had little hope of exiting this conflict unscathed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, the brightside was only a sliver of light through slightly drawn curtains. Getting out of this situation depended entirely on drawing blood and invoking fear. With fangs bared like a python behind glass, Jongho aims his pistol at the space between the leader’s eyes in a blink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “If you want to have a friendly conversation,” he says slowly, taking a step toward the man, “then we can. I hope you don’t mind me taking a few precautions, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      All three strangers freeze in their tracks. There’s a second where he watches confusion flicker across their features. As though they never expected the dainty-handed Cœurdonnier to fist a gun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “We mean no harm,” the lanky one on the left growls, “lower your weapon, son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It yanks a high-pitched laugh out of Mingi’s throat. In a flash, both of his blades are cradled between his fingers and fully visible to their opponents. It’s with a half-cocked smirk and a raised brow that he waggles the thin metal in their faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Mighty ignorant request,” he replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the man with the switchblade takes a quick step toward them, as though planning to charge, Jongho sets his sights on the cobblestone by the tip of his boots. There, he fires a single warning shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It sends all three men scrambling like rats from a kitchen cupboard. One lands flat on his ass as the bullet ricochets away from them, clattering to a stop somewhere down the alley. The other minion runs out of the corridor; obviously wishing to put as much distance between himself and the scene before the police respond to the gunshot. The leader, however, attempts what Jongho believes he can safely assume is the stupidest mistake of the man’s career.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He barrels toward Mingi with his own pistol pointing directly at Jongho’s chest– attempting to take out both birds with one stone. What he doesn’t calculate is the speed at which Mingi moves. His long legs carry him far as he pins the helpless creature to the ground in a second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Despite the edges of the stiletto daggers positioned in an ‘X’ over the man’s purple and red neck, he still attempts to thrash in Mingi’s hold. No doubt, they bite into his flesh, raking angry red slashes across it. If Mingi was to press much harder, permanent damage would be done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though that isn’t the goal. Not when there are still questions left to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Who sent you?” Mingi growls. When their opponent spits at him, slop hitting Mingi’s cheek with a sickening splat, crimson pools along the metal blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re not that important,” the other man laughs, grunting when Jongho finally makes up his mind to kick him backward. His skull slams against the cobblestone as Jongho digs the toe of his shoe into the soft underbelly of his chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It truly was a shame if he was to scuff their pristine patent leather even more. After all, they were still quite shiny. Polish, though, would most likely not cover blood stains if things escalated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Exactly,” he grits out, digging his heel into the man’s clavicle. “That’s why I’m particularly interested in why you chose to accost us in the town square.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re worth a pretty penny, heartmaker,” the leader whines, wriggling under Mingi’s blades. “Saw an opportunity and thought to take it. Thought the queen would pay nicely if we took out one of her problems.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It’s a comment that throws Jongho for an absolute loop. The queen, as far as he understood, considered him an asset– never an issue. Sure, he was playing against her in the long run, but that was not information she was privy to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Mingi barks out an order for the men to explain, he is cut off by loud steps just outside of the alley. The police, usually too far up their own asses to pay attention to petty crime, always did fear the business end of a pistol. It was no surprise that they were descending upon them like hounds in the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He presses down harder, shifting the tough rubber of his sole against the delicate bone. If he applies a bit more pressure, he might even be graced with the music of a painful snap. And something in him wills it. Begs for agony to spill onto these men who thought of stealing him away from his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And when he realizes just how deep his thoughts have drifted, it almost pleases him. He is a precious Cœurdonnier; someone who mends life as easily as he breathes. But for a moment, just a moment, he could take it away too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      However, Jongho wishes just for a few more seconds. A breath of understanding. Shears to trim the camellias that were slowly sinking into a crimson pit. He doesn’t get any of those things by the time the law is running toward them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, as the handcuffs snap into place on the leader’s wrists, Jongho processes what has just transpired. The way his pacifistic nature suddenly dissolved under the weight of a threat. The power he felt with a pistol cradled in his palm and a man beneath his shoe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A human– one he wanted to hurt. To rip apart and watch as cobblestones were painted red.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Who was he becoming?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She knows,” the leader says as he’s being led away. “You think you’re sneaky, but she knows. Fate always wins.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>✧ Find me on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/kyojinouji">@KyojinOuji</a> </p><p>and Tumblr: <a href="https://bazkinrobbins.tumblr.com">@bazkinrobbins</a></p><p>- Cheers! ✧</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. corpses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>“Darling, I have tried to fix you.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I can't count the times that I have kissed you.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I never thought that when you build our home,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>you'd make it out of blood and bones.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Darling, one of us should go.”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>
      <em>Corpses</em>
    </b>
    <em>
      <span> - Saint Sister</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <span>      Orange blossoms. Mingi crafted a crown of orange blossoms and winter jasmine. He weaves it into Jongho’s hair with nimble fingers and delicate sighs. When the younger tries to face him, his brother-in-law holds his head in place. It’s easier to hide the salty tears that roll down his cheeks that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And Jongho pretends not to hear the soft sniffles as he braids gold ribbon miscellaneously into the careful dark waves. Growing up was difficult. No matter the expression one wore as they meandered down their path in life, getting older was like tempting fate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He wonders if they’ve done enough of that. By now, they’ve probably run through an entire spool of red thread– spent by dangling it before God. Though, if they could turn back time and rewind the bobbin, he doesn’t believe he would. Not with the memories painting his mind’s eye so vividly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He nearly blushes at one in particular; born the evening prior. The hour just before sunset, bathed in orange and temptation, marks painting Yeosang’s inner thighs and love bites gracing the dips of his collarbones– the curve of his throat. Bare skin cradled by their bed sheets and swimming in the afterglow of pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho isn’t sure when things became theirs. There had to have been a point, he supposes, where his own legacy was decidedly shared between the two of them. And it blooms warmth in his chest simply to apply the term to everything he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Their home. Their future. Their family. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Theirs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>His</span>
  </em>
  <span> husband– or rather soon to be. There was a feeling of comfort that came with the endearing possessive terms. Maybe that’s why pink dusts his cheeks while Mingi styles him into wedding day perfection. Not because of the intimacy that Jongho shared with his lover the night before, but the language that would come after their official union. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Are you nervous?” Mingi asks, giving one final twist to a strand of Jongho’s hair. It curls playfully over his forehead. “I remember how nervous I was. Yunho or not, it was still a public spectacle. Everyone is watching, you know–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re trying to make me feel better,” Jongho laughs, “perhaps bringing up the grand audience may not be the best way of doing so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi pauses, his mouth falling open into a perfect ‘o’ as he glances between his reflection and Jongho’s in the mirror. A rosy flush spreads over the apples of his cheeks as his eyes grow wider. And then, he putters away quickly to retrieve a vial of perfume from the nearby vanity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It was rare that Jongho spent time in his brothers’ room. Once upon a memory, it had been their parents’. Back then, the door was always locked as to prevent their rowdy bunch from breaking the fragile belongings that decorated the shelves. Now, it was hardly ever closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There wasn’t an open door policy in their home, but it most certainly felt like it. Where Yunho was concerned, there were never secrets to be kept nor visions to be hidden. Though, more often than not, Jongho almost wished there was. After all, far too many embarrassing scenes had unfolded before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And now, sitting in the very room that once held his parents’ memories, Jongho feels his chest tighten. They could have been here. They should have. However, they knew love and delicacy far more than most. When someone sought to rip the brittle plaster from life’s painted walls, they had done nothing to stop them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Always a couple to protect mortality at the risk of their own. The kind of people that never wished to harm another soul. And Jongho knows that’s what they wanted for him as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      So, why does he remember the feeling of a man beneath his shoes? How it graced his veins with the thrumming lightning of power and glory? And more than anything, why did he seek to experience it again? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Jjong?” Mingi says behind him, cradling the crystalline vial with a tumultuous expression. A boat lost at sea would find no comfort in the wave of emotions that roll over his face. “Why are you staring at your own reflection as though you’ve seen a ghost?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Because at least the supernatural would be far more fathomable. There was a stranger in the mirror, and at this point, he could hardly recognize his own eyes. With a sigh, he shuts them tight as Mingi moves to spritz him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’ve heard they prefer the term spirit,” he mutters as the delicate scent caresses the room. It reminds Jongho easily of his mother’s lace dresses and paper flowers left strewn on their dining table. As nostalgic as petrichor, but as foreign as freedom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Have you made acquaintance with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>spirit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> then?” Mingi snorts, placing the perfume on the vanity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the mist settles over the fabric of his wedding attire, the strings in his chest pull taught. This was it. Simple and clean, he was to be married off to the love of his life. However, that didn’t make the memory of the man fade from his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Am I cruel?” Jongho asks suddenly. The question catches Mingi’s breath and balls it up into something tight. Fettered-down and chained to his throat, his voice comes out feeble. “I must be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He feels Mingi’s delicate thumb as it brushes the high-point of his cheek. His touch is warm as he cradles his jaw gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re the farthest thing from cruel that a man could be,” his brother-in-law whispers. There’s a beat of silence before he presses a kiss to Jongho’s forehead. “The world around us is bitter and painful. It’s more amazing that you’ve managed to stay so well-mannered after all this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho can only hum in response. Life of course did not exist only within this room. No matter the desperation trying to tug him far away from the tumbling sands of the hourglass, it was easier to simply succumb. Everything fell to the hands of fate anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Is this about tomorrow?” Mingi asks. When Jongho doesn’t answer, he frowns. “A cruel man would find no tremor in his hands. But you shake like a leaf the moment anyone even alludes to your mission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He may die,” Jongho says before standing briskly. “And I don’t know that I can manage being the reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Shin Kyubin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yeosang,” Jongho corrects with a shiver. “If I was a coward, you know, I would have told the queen to shove an encrusted heel up her-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The door squeaks on its hinges before he can finish the thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      In its entryway, a man lingers. His platinum hair is pushed away from his forehead, but a few strands tumble loosely into his eyes. Though, the gaze that meets Jongho’s is far from the cool and calculated expression that crossed between them before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      They are warm and sympathetic. Without a queen in tow, Park Seonghwa looks years younger than he had that fateful morning in the parlor. Even more so when his lips turn up into some odd cross between a grimace and a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hongjoong’s husband,” Jongho says, already moving toward the newcomer. “He said you would be visiting us today. Thank you for coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Of course,” Seonghwa says, his voice softer than Jongho expected. It’s quite like taking the first sip of jasmine and honey tea. Delicate, but beautiful. As though he could soothe a mind to rest with a few simple words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho holds out a hand and clasps onto Seonghwa’s extended one. The light dances off of his engagement band, making Jongho yearn once more for such a piece of jewelry in his own collection. He could never ask Yeosang to purchase him a ring though. It did not feel like something that could be requested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Yeosang always talked about you,” Seonghwa says softly. There’s a fondness in his expression that Jongho can’t quite place his finger on. As though the man speaks of a past so long forgotten that it was nothing more than ash and dust. “On the base, I mean. There were nights we truly believed that we would never come home…” His voice flickers out like a lone candle in a storm tide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      What goes unsaid is a lament and wilts Jongho’s wisteria heart. Those days weren’t quite over. Particularly now, they seemed to be further away than ever before. It marrs Jongho’s face with a sodden frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “There are so many things I wish I could say, Jongho,” Seonghwa whispers, “but I’ll have to stick to a single thought. Thank you for caring. Not just for Yeosang, but the world around you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Before Jongho can respond, Seonghwa bows with his right arm crossed over his stomach. It’s such a show of submission, particularly from an older man, that Jongho nearly gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You don’t have to–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I want to,” Seonghwa mumbles, still bent at the waist. “If you let me have anything, be it this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The three stand silently in the room; surrounded by the ghosts of Jongho’s past. If walls could talk, he only wonders what they would say. Not only about the man of power showing leniency to a mere boy, but the memories that line these halls like portraits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Seonghwa finally rights himself and brushes off the front of his dress trousers, Jongho pinches the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. The kind that stress stirred up like dust bunnies under a parlor couch. And maybe, he could compare Seonghwa to such a creature. With his silvery hair and large, glittering eyes, he appeared innocent enough to take the part– regardless of how much blood was potentially spilled by his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And so, Jongho bows back. He knows well that there is no point in fighting a losing game, but just as well, there isn’t a reason to avoid calling it a draw. And Seonghwa seems to appreciate the action. With a chuckle, he turns on his heel and offers a gentle wave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I’m off to see your dearest,” he says, snorting when Jongho makes a strangled noise at the pet name. “I look forward to the event.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As he disappears from view, a dull feeling arises in Jongho’s throat. The kind that commands ash dust from forgotten promises. It brings clarity among the stillness, settling over the room like a silken sheet cast upon salty tides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “It’s kind of him to come up,” Mingi says gently, resting his hand on Jongho’s shoulder. “Do you feel any better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Because Seonghwa visited?” Jongho asks, quirking a brow. When Mingi nods, the younger smiles softly. “I do. If anything, I know now that I was never a backup plan for Yeosang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The comment takes Mingi off guard. Eyes wide, he tightens his grip on Jongho; just enough to prove his own personal discomfort. Not as though he tried to hide it in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You had any doubt?” Mingi mumbles. When his palm falls away from Jongho’s shoulder, it’s as though a weight tumbles with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Life was full of uncertainty. Gloomy and thunderous, it would always penetrate the estate’s walls in one way or another. However, hearing the pure bewilderment tinting his brother’s tone did the only thing it could. It proved Jongho wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There was never any question regarding Yeosang’s love or loyalty. Not when he was so willing to lie his life on the line nor when stood on Jongho’s doorstep the second his feet touched the soil of home. He left, but who wouldn’t? In Yeosang’s shoes, he would have done the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Mingi watches the realization drip over Jongho’s face. His expression softens into the honey-sweet delicacy that made commonplace upon his features. Admiration and gentle love. The affection saved for a bond between brothers and a thread connecting similar stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You had doubt,” he whispers, pulling Jongho into a hug. “Why would you ever have any doubt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “He’s no longer my soulmate–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “To hell with soulmates, Jongho. Fate is a treacherous thing, but the path you carve is always going to be your own. Don’t let something unseen control your actions and stew you in sorrow. Regret doesn’t age a person well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The warmth of Mingi’s body wrapped around his bleeds into Jongho’s flesh. It seeps into the white lace of his dress shirt like summer rain. But for all his life is worth, Jongho hopes that it won’t chill him to the bone after the storm has passed. For when the wedding is over, he dreams only of comfortable love and pleasant company. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He also knows better than to utter words of thanks. His brother in law is a respectable man; one that can hardly accept a compliment with ease. They would no doubt end up in a wicked game of push and pull until one side conceded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yunho finds them, Mingi is putting the finishing touches on Jongho’s hair. Small pearls, dainty enough that they’re barely visible from a distance, are stuck to individual sections with light adhesive. It gives the illusion of light snow settling among the dark strands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yunho’s face lights up at the sight. Even if for just a breath, there’s a sheer veil of unfiltered joy. It pulls his lips into a wide smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. And for a moment, he is their father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A man of honest dignity and kind-hearted values. Someone who laughed in the moments that mattered most and fought for what he believed in. In that second, Jongho can almost convince himself that their father was able to be there for his wedding. After all, he had been present for Yunho and Mingi’s union. Was it truly too much to hope for the same?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But when he exhales, it is Yunho. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It has always been Yunho. With rosy cheeks and teary eyes, the figure before him will always be the spitting image of their father. But that will never make him any less than the person he truly is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      A loving brother willing to sacrifice the world for the happiness of his family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You look…” Yunho whispers, his palm cradling Jongho’s cheek, “Mom would be so thrilled,” he finishes. He wonders if that was what Yunho actually wished to say. Or perhaps, words had simply failed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho doesn’t have a moment to respond however. Not with the way Mingi suffocates both of them in a massive bear hug. And Jongho could ask for nothing more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You’re getting married,” Yunho laughs, “God, my baby brother is getting married.” Perhaps the sound of Yunho’s voice breaking with every other syllable is what pushes him over the edge. With a drawn out sob, Jongho throws himself into the embrace wholeheartedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And later, he’d like to say that he maintained his composure while standing just within the confines of the family gazebo. After all, it had been decorated to the nines by Wooyoung and San. Graced by tinsel and strands of woven flowers. However, the moment he caught sight of Yeosang entering the garden gates, everything he had done to prepare himself crumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He was beautiful– not that it came as a surprise. This was Yeosang; the same man who played peace and serenity in nearly every expression without meaning to. The Yeosang who knelt before dandelions and refused to acknowledge their status as weeds. Instead, he only ever chose to rub the yellow petals on Jongho’s chubby childhood cheeks and run away when the younger cried out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Gone were the days where they sat in meadows cast in sunlight– careless and innocent. There would be more, he thought. Or rather, he had hoped. But it had become obvious long before Yeosang departed overseas– the weight of the world would rest on their shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And of course, that was why Yeosang’s return caught him so easily off guard. Agile as a deer in mist, he arrived on their doorstep with no warning. Yeosang’s presence would never be that of a tempest rolling in with the tide. He was graceful and delicate, but as brilliant as the lightning that coursed through the sky. And by all means, just as dangerous. Every ounce of the beauty with none of the sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Now, arm in arm with his father, Jongho can see the radiance that his lover emits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Yeosang had kept his wedding attire a secret for the course of their entire engagement. Whether that was by his own volition or the starburst duo that followed him around, Jongho couldn’t be certain. What he did know, however, was that he more than pleased with the decision. Without it, there was little chance of the air being audibly punched from his lungs in front of the crowd of their closest friends and family. It was no surprise that he was nearly doubled over with tears already forming in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The white grenadine cloth of Yeosang’s blouse fluttered in the gentle winter breeze. While his first thought was that the material was far too light for the cold, he quickly caught sight of the fur-lined wool capelet draped around his shoulders. Shoulders– Jongho noted– that were impossibly bare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The blouse had been designed as an off the shoulder piece, dipping far below Yeosang’s collarbones. It exposed the expanse of his neck, drawing attention to the string of glittering pearls that dripped into every dip. Only when he moved slightly did Jongho catch sight of the thin layer of mesh and lace embroidery that ghosted over his flesh– sparkling in the sunlight. No doubt, the beautiful piece had been inlaid with crystals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Most certainly, the same ones that paired with those stitched intricate into the asymmetric, low-tiered bustle of the blouse’s slight skirt and beige slacks. The dainty fabric cascaded behind him just enough to give the illusion of pure elegance. Though, Jongho knew better than to believe it an </span>
  <em>
    <span>illusion</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      And he hardly could believe his eyes when his gaze fell onto the corset laced and secured with pearls– matching the circlet settled in his hair. Never had there been a day that he imagined wrangling the assassin into such a garment, but he couldn’t be more thankful that someone had managed to do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Even with Yunho holding him up as he tries not to ruin the meticulous makeup Mingi had given him, it was a losing game. To see Yeosang, the soulmate he lost to the hands of time, walking down the aisle toward him was just far too much for his wisteria heart to handle. If he thought he knew the feeling of blooming petals and spring within his chest before, it was nothing compared to these hummingbird-light palpitations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Remember who the first man who ever hugged you was,” Yunho whispers behind him, squeezing his shoulder. “I mean, it was probably Father, but I’d like to be second on that list.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      It pulls a much needed giggle from the depths of Jongho’s throat as he fights the urge to blot away the tears rolling down his cheeks. If he smudged the eyeshadow, Mingi would certainly have his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Do you wish for me to cry harder?” he mumbles, the dizzy-cotton feeling of pure appreciation overtaking his veins. It was probably no surprise for a lovesick fool to be so emotional on his wedding day. Even so, there was always that glimmer of embarrassment he worried would stick with him into the future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Then, however, it would probably only be a memory— if they made it that far. Tomorrow was closer than he had ever imagined it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But today was everything he could hope for. Beauty packaged with a silk bow. It was an adornment of something they had earned– even if it was not all they were worth. He was thankful. And lately, he seemed to be finding so much to be grateful for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When Yeosang’s father guides him to the altar, he smiles. It’s a gesture Jonghio returns easily. While Yeosang’s family was rarely present in their modern life, they were often in the backdrop of every defining moment through childhood. The matriarch of the Kang estate was the guiding figurehead of their movements through the aristocracy. Yeosang’s father was much closer to a calming buoy meant to tether her to the tumultuous waves of high-class society. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Though, he was strict in the life that he saw for his son. However, Yeosang did not protest. And as such, Jongho found it hard to do so himself. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was offend his husband’s family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Be kind to him,” Kang says as he takes a step away from the podium, “that is all I ask.” When he takes his seat in the front row, Jongho feels his heart smother itself in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He meets Yeosang’s eyes. And even the stars, invisible in the daylight, must witness the way he falls. For the man staring back at him smiles shakily, lips red and bitten, cheeks flushed. The image of celestial forgiveness, Jongho thinks, for sins left unnamed. Perhaps unknown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hi,” Yeosang whispers, his voice shy. Why would he be? They’ve seen everything the other had to give and more. However, Jongho crumbles when he sees the tears that accompany Yeosang’s expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Hi,” Jongho breathes. Yeosang’s face softens, petal pink kiss winking when the corners of his eyes crinkle. He is a painting of modern excellence and romantic yearning. And somehow, he calls himself Jongho’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “You picked white too,” Jongho says gently, gesturing at the outfit Yeosang adorned. The color of chosen right. There were hundreds of options, but the idea that they both had selected the same tone was beyond Jongho’s wildest dreams. They had the same meaning for their life together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      No matter what may come their way, they chose to fight alongside each other. It was a battle they sought; and one they would most certainly receive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Would you have rather I picked red?” Yeosang smirks, chuckling when the magistrate snorts behind them. “I figured wishing myself dead was not the proper way to begin this union.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Perhaps not,” Jongho laughs, “I feel there is enough death in this world already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Then, may both of you choose to live,” the magistrate says, “and this joyous occasion can begin. I’ve been told neither of you would like to follow traditional customs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho shakes his head. They had opted for a simple reading of vows rather than all of the pomp and circumstance that had become common. Yeosang nods along, fumbling with something just inside of his winter cloak. Carefully, he passes a single sheet of parchment to the magistrate with a shy smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “My mother requested that you read this,” he says softly, “she’s been saving it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      The man takes the paper easily, bobbing his head as he unfolds it. With a raised brow, Jongho casts a sideways glance in Yeosang’s direction. However, his fiance does not meet his eyes. Especially not as the man overseeing their union begins to read the note aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “To my dearest Jongho,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As I am writing this, you sit in the garden with a boy who you once told me smiles like sunlight. That was, of course, before you had your first heartbreak. It was before many things, I believe. However, as your mother, I have never doubted you. That boy seems to have always been your bottled joy. Even in the moments I held you as you crumbled from his harsh words, it was hard to deny just how much you cared for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      As I am writing this, I know that Yeosang plans to travel abroad under royal command. As I am writing this, I know that you will have to make a decision to pull the cork or keep him safe. And as I am writing this, my darling boy, I hope you let your heart pull you in the best direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      There will be times that the ache finds its way into your soul. Not that sharp pain that comes with scabbed knees or open wounds, but the sort that makes you truly understand what agony entails. It’s a dull feeling, my love, but it can consume you. I beg that you listen to your heart. Crystalline and wisteria laced, it will not crack under pressure; do not be afraid to apply it as you need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Love hurts. It doesn’t have to, but in your father and my case, it certainly has had its moments. Should you stay by his side, I’m certain you will see that far too clearly. Though, I do not think you should let that stop you. There is a reason you were once bound by fate. Why should you give up on it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Darling, I believe it will storm soon. Once you finish this conversation, I cannot imagine how I will comfort you. But as a mother, I will strive to do just that. Do not let the rain soak you to the bone and brew nothing but angst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      You are strong, but just the same, you are allowed to grow. Spring forth, my angel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Love always.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When the magistrate’s voice fades from the air, there are cacophonous sniffles to be heard all around. However, the loudest emanates from Yunho, whose tear-streaked face is tinted crimson. Even Yeosang’s family, who sit in the front with the legs crossed and eyes weary, don expressions of pure sorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho’s mother met an untimely demise; that much was certain. But to hear her words post-mortem in a letter he had never seen was more than startling. It was as though she clawed her way back through the veil just to deliver one final blow to his already delicate lungs. And should that have been her goal, perhaps she would be proud to know that she bloomed buttercups in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      How odd would it be for a groom to spit yellow petals onto the wedding altar? Or to leave a trail of them if he chose to tear back toward the sanctity of the estate? One could only assume that it would be disruptive at least– aggravating at best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      When he meets Yeosang’s eyes, his fiance offers but a dainty, wet chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “She left it with my mother,” he says again, “therefore, thank her for your watery expression, my love.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Jongho laughs. Truly and wholeheartedly, the sound pours from his chest like the wind upon the autumn leaves. He only hopes that it comes out less destructive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Thank you,” he says, directing his attention to the Kang matriarch. She stares back, the corners of her lips quirking up just slightly. “You have brought more joy to me than I could have ever imagined— both in the form of this letter and your son.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      If Jongho’s voice cracks on every syllable, he would prefer it to go unnoticed. A drop in the bucket of life dumped into the sea of the future. May the tides only pull such happiness in later on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Might I read my true vows, then?” Jongho asks, smiling when Yeosang cocks his head. “I promise, I will keep it short and sweet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Of course,” the magistrate says, taking a step back, “I suppose I’m really only here to oversee.” It pulls a laugh from the crowd. However, the only thing Jongho can see is the way Yeosang glows beneath the sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      They were blessed with a beautiful day. Snowy;  of course. And colder than he would have otherwise preferred. Though, there was no denying the aesthetics that leaked into their union. It was only right, after all. They had been through far too much to deserve Mother Nature’s less enjoyable opportunities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Brilliant,” Jongho says, turning to face his lover. “Then, Kang Yeosang, I am honored to hold you within my sight. From the moment you stepped into my life until the moment we exit this world, you will continue to inspire me to be a better man— a more dedicated human being. There were times in the past I never saw myself jumping the hurdle that just so happened to be your love. But seeing you now, beyond stunning and a gift from the heavens so far above, I realize that there was a reason I could never navigate such obstacles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      He takes that moment to step forward, his fingers lacing with Yeosang’s. If the Earth could breathe, he was certain she would hold her breath. Atleast, he knew that he was. With the drumming in his chest and the ache behind his ribs, it was hard to let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      But before him was the man he was once destined to be with. And if he could do anything to abdicate the throne of fate and her followers, he would do it. If only for Yeosang. Always, he thinks, for Yeosang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I don’t suppose outrunning my past has ever been my strong suit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “Nor have you been fabulous at jumping hurdles,” Yeosang whispers, tears already dripping from the high points of his cheeks. “And for that, I will thank the gods until the day I die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      “I thought we weren’t meant to speak of death,” Jongho says, smirking when Yeosang’s hands find their way to his waist. When Yeosang pulls them together, almost aggressively, the warmth of his chest radiates through Jongho’s. Comfortable love, of course. He could always get used to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      With the drumming of their hearts to accompany the laughter of the crowd, and the tired sigh of the magistrate, Jongho locks their lips, solidifies their union, and ties their bond. So what if fate piloted their every move? He could at least take charge of his own life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Just this moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>      Just once.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry for the long wait and the short chapter ^^;; life really hits hard sometimes.</p><p>✧ Find me on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/kyojinouji">@KyojinOuji</a></p><p>- Cheers! ✧</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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